The landlord hasn't seen this place since June

The landlord hasn't seen this place since June.

The walls have taken on a nicotine hue.

I scrub the bottom of the plastic curtain,

looking for a white I thought I knew.

It’s a permanent tea-stain, a tired gold,

the kind of color that only age can provide.

The only thing clean is the bar of soap,

a bright, sharp white with nowhere to hide

at the tea-colored bottom of the tub.