Repeating Pattern

The triangles are supposed to be blue

but they bleed into a tired green.

Three rows down, the printer slipped

and left a row of half-finished shapes,

stuttering across the plastic.

I’m waiting for the pill to work.

The floor tile is cold against my heels.

At the bottom, where the water pools,

a pinkish bloom has started to grow.

It’s a soft, velvet filth

clinging to the hem of the geometry,

unbothered by the soap.