Seal

The hardware store aisle stretches too long.

I'm holding three tubes of caulk—

white, white, and something called pearl white—

and I can't choose

because choosing means going home,

means standing in the bathtub

with a caulk gun in both hands,

means looking at the separation,

that thin black line

where the old caulk peeled away,

revealing the darkness underneath,

what's been rotting there

while I pretended the seal was permanent,

while I pretended something that breaks

doesn't need to be watched constantly.

A man in a red vest asks if I need help.

I say no, but I'm still here,

still holding these tubes,

still unable to commit

to fixing something

that will only break again.

The darkness in that gap

doesn't care which white I choose.