Black Rim

The faucet fixed, a leaky win.

Water still drips, from deep within.

My hands are raw, a soapy film,

but still it sits, upon the rim.

That stubborn line, a crescent dark,

a tiny scar, a dirty mark.

From earth or rust, I can't quite tell.

A small reminder, doing well.

It won't wash off, not with this soap.

Another chore, beyond my scope.

A tiny grit, a hard-earned trace.

It settles in, to hold its place.