Scoured

The landlord is coming at eight on the dot.

I’m down on my knees in the steam.

I’m scrubbing away every shadow and spot

until the porcelain starts to gleam.

The Borax is white and it smells like a cliff.

It gets in my throat and under my nails.

My back is a board, aching and stiff,

trying to hide all the ways a life fails.