useless art

Slate gray.

The bones groan and ache each
night. The pipes push their
business through when required.

Darkness hides corners where
shadows of ghosts wait wait wait
with the patience of stone.

And the shades beat down light,
leaving weak strands of dust to
bleed through and pierce

skittish eyes. And the body
crawls into itself, a frightened
snake searching for shade.

There are two mice downstairs.
One, in the toilet, silent in
prayer, innocent, forgiven.

The other, frantic, trapped.
The poison worked slowly, and the
trap stood firm and just.

It watches the corners for shapes
crawling over cold concrete,
listens as the darkness tilts

from the light, bent across bubbled
paint, passes air through sandpaper,
cracks and shivers.

But I never move.

Nothing moves.