This hallway has a memory of lard

This hallway has a memory of lard.

The sponge comes back from the molding

slick with a buttery, ancient film

that smells like a stove left on.

It’s the color of a yolk gone gray at the edge,

that sulfurous, tired yellow

that hides in the corners of cheap rooms.

I keep scrubbing, but the wall just weeps

a history of salt and steam.