Patchwork and Water

The landlord promised the tiles would stay,

but the grout is all turning to a powdery gray.

So I’m down on my knees with a tube in my hand,

trying to fix what I don’t understand.

I squeeze the trigger and the silicone creeps,

filling the cracks where the dampness seeps.

A gummy, white bead smears onto my thumb,

and my knees on the porcelain are starting to go gum.

It’s a temporary fix for a permanent rot,

a way to pretend that the leaking has stopped.

It dries like a scar, uneven and thick,

a rubbery bandage that won't really stick.