The Rust of Mercy

I was hunting for something for a split in the nail,

among the expired and the hopelessly stale.

The bottle was glass, and the glass was a clatter,

spilling the secrets of things that don't matter.

The orange-brown puddle is claiming the tile,

a stain that’s been waiting for more than a while.

It looks like the history of every bad fall,

the color of rust on a locker-room wall.

You can scrub till the porcelain is thin as a bone,

but the iodine knows when it’s finally home.

It sinks through the cracks like a slow, steady debt,

the kind of a mark you aren’t meant to forget.