The Clean Burn

The grout is a grid of a dull, yellowed bone.

I scrub with a brush till the knuckles are red.

The fumes are a weight that I carry alone,

filling the spaces and clogging my head.

A splash hit the cuff of my favorite black pants,

turning the fabric a bright, sudden rust.

The house has its ways and its chemical chants,

while I try to burn off the layers of dust.