Waterproof

The landlord said it was fixed,

but the smell of rotting pine

still crawls out from behind the pedestal.

He used the cheap stuff—silicone that goes

yellow before it even dries.

I spent twenty minutes tonight

picking at the bead near the cold tap.

It came away in a long, rubbery strip,

like skin peeling off a bad burn.

It felt good to see the gap again.

Now there’s a single, white flake of it

wedged deep under my thumb nail.

I can’t get it out with a toothpick.

It’s just there, a synthetic bit of lying

tucked against the grit of my own hand.