Twenty Mules

Behind the old jam jars,

behind the tins of spice,

a faded yellow box just sits,

not very nice.

Twenty Mule Team, it still claims,

a relic from some past.

The previous tenant's cleaning dreams,

a memory meant to last.

I tilt it,

a gritty sound, a hiss.

Fine white powder,

a forgotten kiss

of some old chore,

from another time.

It sticks to fingers,

a dust, a grime.

My grandmother's house,

a smell of starch and wood.

She kept a box, just like this,

misunderstood.

For laundry, yes, but maybe too,

for things that didn't show.

A bitterness, a lonely hue,

a life, long, long ago.