The Grout

The tiles are still white. Give them that—

years of steam and grease and heat running high—

each tile still clean. It's only the flat

gray of the grout between. I don't know why

today was the day I finally stopped.

I looked up from the pan I was scrubbing—

the lines all gray, the white I'd dropped

somewhere along the way. I kept thumbing

back through what I could find—

was it gray when we moved in. I couldn't say.

That's the part I keep turning in my mind:

not that it changed, but missing the day

it happened. All three of us in here.

The mornings. The steam. The routine.

The tiles still bright and clean and clear.

The grout the color of something between.

I put the pan away.