Thursday, December 1, 2011

My Carpet, My Witness

I've seen this carpet new and worn.
I've lived through its existence.
And it's seen me--it knows my feet
as well as anyone else.

We have an agreement on bare feet.
It's gentle on us both.
I work a lot, so does he,
so we value this companionship.

We first met when my husband and I
were newlyweds. I swear,
the carpet knew us well.

Then our child. Timothy.
And all of his crawls and cars.
Sticky hands. Outstretched arms.
Muddy shoes and bottles.

He grew. I grew. My husband, too.
Became closer to the door
and me to the vacuum cleaner.

And upon his return,
I was closer to the floor.

Stains of red. Washed away.
My carpet never complained.
I liked it better than the wall
which insisted on leaving marks.

I'm sorry my skin is not the same.
I'm sorry my skin owns these flaws.
I'm sorry I could not dodge the walls.
I'm sorry that these bruises came.

Years and tears have passed away
and late into the night
sometimes I come crawl onto the floor
and cling with my fragile clutch.

I want to stay curled up here,
because God, I can't stand the world.