Third Wash

Three runs through the machine tonight

and the stain hasn't moved much.

Smaller—which is worse, I think,

than if I'd lost touch

with it entirely. At least then

I'd be done. I'm at the sink,

eleven o'clock, shirt collar

under the bulb. I blink

at it, tilt it left.

The thumbprint. Still the same

size it's been since Tuesday.

Knuckles raw. Tile cold. My name

is on the schedule Monday morning.

I need this shirt.

I've been holding it up for an angle

that changes the answer. Alert

for something. There isn't one.

Faucet still running.

Smaller. Not gone.