the old carpet is rolled up in the corridor
like a fluffy tree trunk.
if i nudge it as i pass,
it coughs up a flurry of dirt and dust
that settles on my clothes
like a layer of snow,
yet i do not always brush it off.
it has been there for weeks now,
so i know that when it is moved
the hallway will feel bigger
father stays up late in the study,
and i can hear his voice
echoing, booming louder than before,
reflected against the exposed wood of the floor.
the orange light
stretches onto the plush red
of the hall outside,
into the small hours of the night.
sometimes the room is silent
for a long time
and i worry that he has dozed off,
resting his head
on a pillow of papers and parchment.
as the brightness of day
forces its way through my thin curtains
and the smell of fresh bread
floats through the crack under my door,
i hope the carpet will be gone.
so far, my wishes remain un-granted
and the dust remains
throughout my wardrobe.