with an old dish cloth
as I do the plates when I wash
them after dinner, till the remnants
of Salisbury steak grow thinner. Or sweat

that runs off like a trough
down my nape from the steam
in the bathroom. Wipe him with
a tissue as I do the mist on the

mirror. I dot the glass. And a little
spot grows clearer. But it fills back up
again. Till a breeze from the window
blows in. He's ***** matter stuck in

the groove of my sneaker. So,
as I move, I tread it into the house. Spreading
it like a disease. And the stench of it
knocks me out. But even ****

that’s smeared like shaving cream in
peaks of brown and green
can be wiped off the floor. But not
the memory I neatly store.