Poetry from Cody Tse

The Floor

I feel like the floor. Everything else here has a purpose. A unique purpose. Not the floor.

The rightmost wall
Has the doors
From Outside.
Leading in.
And the doormat
And doorstop
That is actually just a large rock painted yellow.
The leftmost wall
Has the only outside
Some clear.
Some frosted.
Some cross-hatched.
And of course the door
Leading to the balcony
And the balcony.
The front-most wall
Has the whiteboard
With announcements
And the white
Projector screen
That rolls down.
And the obnoxious 
Bird clock
That chirps
And barely tells time.
The back-most wall
Has Heather’s room
With Heather’s snacks.
The upperclassmen’s room
And the functional clock.
Two actually.
The floor has the rug. 
Which is all that people care about.

They don’t dare to step on it, but walk all over the floor.
They talk about how nice it would be if there was just a gaping hole in a rectangle shape.
Where the rug is.
And yarn veins of rug rooted all the way through to the first floor.
Like a pool of rug.
What about the floor.