The Map of Standing

I'm sitting on my mother's kitchen floor

waiting for her. She went to the store.

I dropped a glass. It shattered. While I swept

I noticed the pattern. The way the floor has kept.

The checkerboard is worn smooth in the middle.

Bright and raised at the corners—a riddle

of where people stand. The floor knows

the geography of everything, the prose.

There's a darker circle around the sink and stove.

That's where my mother stands. That's love,

or proof of it anyway. The evidence

written in linoleum. The floor's persistence.

High-traffic areas worn down to the base.

Low-traffic corners still have their grace.

The floor is a map of the kitchen's life.

The floor records the daily strife.

I'm sitting in the worn spot.

The place where everyone has got

their standing. My mother. Her mother before.

The floor understands what we don't keep score.