The repairman peeled back a corner of gray

The repairman peeled back a corner of gray,

where the sink had been weeping for months on the floor.

He pulled up the present to show me the way

the kitchen had looked thirty summers before.

Underneath the modern, fake-stone grain

was a layer of daisies, yellow and bright.

A sticky, old garden hiding the stain

of people who lived here before the blight.

It’s a history of taste stuck down with glue,

peeling away in a damp, curled square.

We’re just walking on top of what used to be true,

until someone decides to look under the stair.