The coffee spilled on Tuesday and it stained

The coffee spilled on Tuesday and it stained,

by Wednesday it was dark,

by Thursday I was pained.

Water wouldn't move it.

The mop wouldn't lift it.

Nothing reasonable could prove it

was ever going to vanish.

So today I broke out the box—

white granules, the kind of thing

that came to clean or detox.

I pour it out. It's almost pretty,

the contrast between the powder white

and the brown, the city

of two colors refusing to touch,

refusing to blend,

refusing to admit how much

of each one's going to stay.

I add water like the box said to do.

The powder is supposed to absorb

the stain, make it like new.

But it just sits there, slowly

getting heavier,

slowly settling like maybe

it's giving up before it starts.

This is what cleaning looks like—

not transformation, but compromise.

The powder turning gray,

the stain getting lighter, the way

neither one wins,

just both getting tired.

I let it sit for hours.

When I come back, it's barely different.

The mark is still there, still with powers.

The floor will never be

what it was before,

and I'll live with that, see,

some things, once marked, stay marked.