The Pattern Underfoot

I’m on my hands and knees

with a rag that’s more grey than white.

The heavy cream is a white river

running into the gap by the baseboard.

There’s a cigarette burn right here—

a tiny, charred island

left by someone who lived here before

we started ignoring each other.

I know every fleck of this fake marble

better than I know the look

in your eyes when you’re lying.