There was a brown flower in the office carpet,
something between coffee, blood, and a failed apology.
The boss stepped over it in polished shoes
like a priest avoiding a drunk outside church.
At lunch I ate a damp ham sandwich in the stairwell
while someone upstairs made love or moved furniture badly.
The radiator clicked like a cheap insect.
My inbox kept offering growth.
By evening the stain looked almost holy,
a small continent with no flag but smell.
I stood there holding my coat and my stupid life,
thinking even filth gets a shape if you leave it long enough.