Little Scraps

The carpet is fuzzy.
I’ve never noticed how remarkably fuzzy the carpet is.
And when I rub my cheek against
its off-white clumps, it tickles.

Slightly. Because it also scratches in an unpleasant way.
But then my eyes catch the dent in the wall
(or rather, the dent catches my eyes),
and I forget the carpet and remember

how my four-legged wooden stool
scraped there when you threw it aside after
climbing on top to turn on the ceiling fan because
it was such a hot day so many years ago.

And only then do I know that today’s another day
I won’t get up until the shadows on the wall roll east.