Untitled

There’s a nail sticking out of the wall
In the room I stay in,
Pointy-end out.
It has no business being there.
It has no possible purpose; it can’t be used for anything.

I spend every night without exception staring at that nail,
Mostly for a minute or two,
But sometimes for up to a half-hour,
And when I stare at it long enough
It begs me to give it a purpose.