Vinyl

The clock on the microwave is a green, blinking curse,

counting down the minutes until I have to hand over the keys.

I’m on my knees with a scouring pad,

grinding at a rust ring that’s lived under the trash can

longer than I’ve lived with my own heavy thoughts.

This floor is a lie of printed oak grain,

a thin skin stretched over the rot of the subfloor.

Up by the radiator, the corner has finally surrendered,

curling back to reveal a gummy, gray mouth

clotted with two years of cat hair and grit.

I’m trying to glue it back down with a prayer,

pushing my weight into the bubbles of air,

but the adhesive is tired and the pattern is wrong.

He’s going to see the way the fake wood doesn't line up,

how the whole foundation is just a sticker

peeling away from the damp.