Mildew and Manners

My heel hits the sodden, cold weight of it.

Cotton turned into a swamp.

The sock is ruined, a damp, dark hit

that smells like a basement lamp.

You left it there like a shed skin,

expecting the tiles to drink the mess.

I kick it away, seeing the gray grin

of a footprint left in the wetness.

No amount of steam or pine-scented soap

scrubs out the way you just leave.

It’s a flat, heavy kind of nope

stuck to the hem of my sleeve.