you are my strength.
wiping grot and oily grime from
cobwebbed garage shelves, now mine,
I tamp down irritation at the time
it takes to clean another house. “it’s fine.”
my old house was scrubbed spotless. no token left
behind, nodding at our decade there. no broken
things, no artifacts, no remnants. all was taken
clean away. I felt an obligation, though unspoken,
to erase all traces of myself, and so I did, at length.
but in this new place, there’s a story in the dank
and mildewed corners, and taped to a crumbling plank—
“have a good one. you are my strength.”