Published in Carolina Woman Magazine

The Big Dipper splotch
mocks me at the top of the stairs
guarding the bathroom, delighting in permanence.
Not coffee, tea or dirt.
Motor oil perhaps, but how the hell
did a member of my household
spill fuel from their hands or a plastic cup
before going to bed? Boiling water,
baby shampoo, toothbrush, prayer.
This stain is like a pole dancer
clinging to carpet fibers
before closing time.

I call the carpet guys
and they blame me for playing
Lady Macbeth. But in the wetness
of now scrubbed wall-to-wall,
the stain remains, a hero who
remembers that moment
of glory when strangers’ thoughts
only centered on him
and now refuses to disappear.