The Peeling Line

That line by the tub.

It’s peeling back.

A slack, grey rope

of where the water went wrong.

And underneath,

the black begins.

A creeping smear

that smells of damp and time.

I poked it. Felt the grit.

It’s not just grime.

It’s the whole damn seal

that’s given up the ghost.

This white line meant to hold

against the flood.

Now it just shows the crack,

the slow defeat.