The Marks in the White

The white is not so white.

I’ve let it go, the ring

around the drain, a pale,

thick outline where the water

always stood too long.

It holds the ghost of suds,

the mineral blush from pipes

that must be older than I am.

I stare at it, this film

like dried-out skin, and think

of all the days I didn't want

to face the damp, the steam,

the clean that never quite

takes everything away.