Sink

Sometimes
I walk a dirty little line of truth
And I track mud on every tile
Of our little white kitchen

We bought our sink from Fergusons
and paid two wide almond eyed men
To uproot our old, gold pipes and replace them
With copper

Which was cheaper
And stronger

And they christened our laten lined,
Newly defined,
Scrubbing Station
With hand carved ivory bars

And if our clean hands could touch the stars
They would.
And the impact would wash away the bleach and lye
That burned our skin and made us cry

But even so I could not hide
My stoot filed soles
My shoes had holes.