Static Friction


The dresser won’t budge,

It’s been there for a while,

Maybe the floor is used to it.

Would it hold a grudge,

If it felt exiled?

What if it fit?

The spot underneath,

Tan, sandy-brown,

Like an old business sock.

Or a heath,

Found downtown,

In the land of hard-knocks.

Maybe a change of scenery,

Is what it needs,

Instead of rearrangement.

Maybe it should see some greenery,

I could toss it into the weeds,

If I could accept the estrangement.

I hope,

It doesn’t score the floorboards,

Or tip over.