Sealant

Saturday. On my knees in the bathtub

with a utility knife,

I pulled the old caulk out

in one long ribbon—brown,

cracked, peeling like a sunburn

I never treated.

Underneath: black mold.

Months of it. Maybe a year.

I'd been standing over it

every morning, hot water

on my shoulders, thinking

about the day, the day,

while something grew along the seam

that I was not thinking about.

Loaded the gun. Laid a bead

of white so clean it looked

like it belonged to a different

bathroom, a different person,

somebody who checks.

I smoothed the edge with a wet thumb

and stepped back.

The tub looked new.

The tub is not new.