Dusty Box

It sat on a shelf, forgotten, old,

purged from the cabinets, or so I'm told.

A yellowed box, the faded blue,

a promise of cleaning, something true.

Not the scented foam, the spray so fine,

but honest grit, a chalky line

against the grime that modern ways

just skim, for brighter, shinier days.

I spoon it out, a little mound,

a whisper of earth, almost no sound.

And suddenly the kitchen floor

looks less like mine, and something more

like hers, the way she used to scrub,

with elbow grease and a sturdy tub.

This residue, so dry and stark,

is all that's left to leave its mark

against the things that won't give in,

the stains that live beneath the skin

of polished lives, the deep-set wear.

Just powder now, and a quiet prayer.