What I Bought to Fix

The box is in the cabinet

where I left it a week ago.

White powder in cardboard,

the label with instructions

I don't need to read because

I already know what borax does.

It cleans things. It fixes

what's dirty. It makes

the grout between the tiles

white again instead of

the gray it's turned into

from living, from time,

from not being cleaned.

I bought it on a Sunday.

Felt very purposeful about it.

Very adult. The kind of person

who identifies a problem

and buys a solution.

Now the box sits there.

I open the cabinet for something else

and it's waiting. Patient.

Full of instructions I could follow

but haven't. The white powder

visible through the opening

in the seal, like it's showing me

what I could accomplish

if I just opened the box

and poured it where it's supposed to go.

But I don't. The grout stays gray.

The cabinet stays closed.

And I keep buying things

to fix things I don't fix.

Keeping solutions on shelves

like I'm collecting evidence

of my intentions. Like the box

itself is enough. Like the act

of purchasing is the same

as the act of doing. The label

on the box still reads clearly.

The instructions still wait.

I walk past the cabinet

multiple times a day.

I know exactly what's in there.

And I still don't use it.