Floors That Don't Age

The linoleum's been beige since I was small,

the pattern meant to hide the dirt and stain.

The seam runs down the middle like a vein,

and I've stared at it through every visit, all

the years I've come here sick or scared or tired,

and found this floor exactly as before.

I recognize the scuffs, the worn-down core,

the places where the nervous have perspired.

At nine I had a fever. At sixteen,

anxiety I couldn't even name.

The floor stayed the same, exactly the same,

the only thing that never changed the scene.

I could return here decades from right now

and know each creak, each worn and weary spot—

this floor has memorized exactly what

I've lost, and holds it with its beige vow.