Ring on the Ceiling

The rain came hard enough to crack the night—

a drip, a slow betray, the plaster wets.

Above my head the ceiling bears a bruise,

a ring, gray-brown, curling like old news.

I count the cracks that spider from its edge,

splotches darker than the dust that clings.

This stain, a quiet proof the roof gives way,

a slow invasion, one drip at a time,

like all the things you don’t fix in time,

pressing soft against the plaster,

till it spreads,

till it spreads.