I did it the way you do when you're sorry

I did it the way you do when you're sorry

for something you can't put a name to yet—

on my knees, the brush, the yellow gloves,

the grout going white as it dried in the wet.

The gloves came off inside-out on the tub.

I left them there and didn't look back.

I thought I was done with the smell by then.

By noon it had followed me down the track

of the subway stairs, and up again,

into my sandwich at my desk.

The bread tasted wrong. The afternoon tasted wrong.

I don't know what I was trying to address.

The floor is clean.

My hands smell like nothing now.

Something should be different.