Dear low, sloped ceiling,
My head hurts just to think of you.
If you could, tell the fluorescent light
(full of bugs from 1989),
and blue carpeted floor
(as pristine as the day you were set down):
I’m sorry about the things I’ve said.
Dear dark corner, behind hanging shirts — button-down
(a cat’s favored hiding place),
and stacked boxes, all childhood packed away
(and more money wasted on eBay than I’d like to admit):
You guys too.
But especially…
My dearest cheap, plastic hamper,
overturned more than once
so I could sleep in a pile of dirty clothes
(don’t ask why):
We haven’t been as close as we were once,
(and someday soon I’ll be gone)
but until then —
You shared some light when the universe went cold —
And you should know: it meant more than we thought it could.
Love,
Scott