Twenty Mule Team

It came with the crate of your cleaning things—

the mop, steel wool, the drain cleaner nearly gone.

I held the Borax over the trash. It brings

me up short, still. The water stain along

the bottom of the box, the cardboard soft

with old damp. Powder caked around the mouth.

The label—yellow, green—gone pale aloft

in whatever light it lived in, going south

for years before I found it. I stood there

longer than made sense. The smell came up:

chalk, and something sharper. The particular air

of your apartment's cabinet. The cup

of that old mineral, floor-cleaner smell.

I put it back. I don't know what I'm saving

it for—the mules on the label, their small

procession almost gone now, still behaving

as if they're pulling something toward

some finish line. The box half-full.

The cabinet closed. I haven't stored

a reason yet. I just can't pull

it loose and let it go.