spot stare

A spot on the floor held my gaze
in the way a leery drunken fool stares.
I thought of the myriad of things I could do to avoid the spot's gaze,
including removing the spot with a kitchen towel.
Ha! that would teach the cheeky spot to spy on me.

I do not move, I do not remove myself from the spot's glare,
I sit in my place at the far end of the couch just where it 
sags a little bit more not because of my largesse
but my large ess. 
I could move, 
if I chose to.

The trouble with moving is I'd lose my place
you know, in the book, the programme, the game
the bookmark in my mind, the turned down page
I'd lose the thread like when I used knit
and the stitches would come off.

If I stay here in stasis the spot is just one reminder
of a house that used to be clean, of a life that
used to have order, of clean clothes that smelled
of laundry and iron, of washed skin that caressed
and was caressed.

But if I move, oh that's just a whole pile of trouble
it comes in waves, the postman, the milkman, the newspaper delivery 
girl. The neighbour, the daughter, the friend.
Waves of people peering in, gawking at the woman 
who used do lots
and now does nothing at all except stare back at the spot.