Plastic the colour of sea glass
runs along the hallway. A static river,
anchored in place. Where it goes is unimportant.
Beneath me is material archaeology.

Stalactite cones push into fuzzy carpet loops.
On the surface, a grainy border. Sand, blasted.
Overhead, the ceiling drips darkness
while fingers traverse.

How many times did I crawl along the hallway?
How long was I submerged on the mat?

Today I am more likely to examine the crevices within,
following the rivulets of time as they carve inexorable paths.
Fleshy ridges require a different kind of excavation.

It is a remnant of early childhood.
A memory that serves no purpose,
but to remind me I am
beholden to touch.