The Tub's Ring

The porcelain, cold and wide,

held days of dirt I couldn't hide.

A slow descent, the water gone,

left evidence from dusk till dawn.

A pale, thin ring, it traced the past,

each soak, each wash, designed to last.

A ghost of soap, a grime so slight,

it clung there, holding onto light.

My sponge, it scraped, I pressed it hard,

like trying to erase a bitter card.

But still it stayed, that stubborn line,

a map of hours, yours and mine.

A small geology, slowly made,

a history the water laid.