Bare wall

I encourage a spider to cross, to

string its web from an edge to another. Your

home, spider, defies my eyes unless the light

hits it right or a catch dangles and its legs wiggle

their last.

I nudge a crack with my boot exposing aged lath and a

nail head–this hanging over a dried mouse corpse, its

nose pointing skyward … if only it could see the sky.

I indulge my ungrounded outlet with a task lamp and

stare at the wall I call bare with its

speckles of dirt and greasy fingerprints and

static-stuck hair and, believe me, if I owned

this place I’d break off a piece and share

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