Oxidation

The rug was supposed to be a smart buy.

A way to keep the dirt from the eye,

to have a floor that didn't look like a mess.

But it’s a deep maroon, I have to confess,

it looks like the color of a healing knee.

It’s a giant, square bruise that I have to see

every time I walk to the kitchen to eat.

Under the pharmacy light, it’s not even sweet,

it more like old blood or a wet, black stain.

I see the jelly on my sleeve, like a vein

opened up by a piece of jagged tin.

It’s just fruit, but it looks like the skin

after someone takes a punch.