Scrubbing the Scuffs

The bucket sloshes on the kitchen floor,

I’m on my knees with a plastic brush.

I’m digging for the shine I had before

inside this grey and Tuesday-afternoon hush.

A cigarette once rested in this spot,

a yellowed burn that’s melted through the grain.

A history of people I forgot

who left behind their little marks of pain.

The corner of the tile is peeling back

where old adhesive shows like grey, chewed gum.

I’m scrubbing hard into every single crack

until my fingers go a little numb.