Peripheral Vision

The courier asked me

if the lobby was tiled or carpeted.

I held the phone to my ear

and looked at the ceiling

trying to find the answer.

I’ve lived here three years.

I know the smell of the mailboxes—

old brass and circulars—

but I couldn't tell you

the pattern on the floor.

I’m standing over a crack

in the linoleum right now.

It’s beige, I think.

Or the color of a tooth

that’s seen too much coffee.

The wall is just a distance

between me and the elevator,

a dull, textured nothing

I’ve leaned against

without ever touching.