There are these spots on my ceiling.
Plainly speaking, they are
off-white patches where
the heads of nails were
mudded over, but not well sanded.
I opt to see them as
push-pins squashed when spat
on monochrome maps
to point me dippered ways outre-ward.
Their gap-tooth patterns micro-mimicking
my eyes to hazard
hopping through new belt hoops.
Then passed by barely habited worlds,
I wheel round orbits
chained to collide, next time.
My neighbor's heavy steps fade out.
— Francis Scudellari
This poem is written in response to Read Write Prompt #112: Narrative wallpaper at Read Write Poem. Rather than being inspired by what I found on my walls, I looked up to the ceiling.