The sponge is black with a month of the street

The sponge is black with a month of the street,

dragged in on the soles of my shoes.

I’m down on the floor in the afternoon heat,

with nothing but minutes to lose.

The sunlight is sharp on the kitchen’s edge,

it catches a ghost of a stain.

A spill from a cup on the counter’s ledge,

shaped like a map of the rain.

The grey, peeling seam by the wall is a tear,

where the glue has given its ghost.

I’m scrubbing the grime that I’ve gathered in there,

the parts of the year I hate most.