Cleaning

Foam and bubbles, the smell of detergent
 clinical and sickening, 
 not at all masked by the heavy scent
 of citrus and blossom, 
 smothering a stronger stench:
 the stench of too much wine, 
 of tears and blood and broken glass. 
  
 Scrub, scrub, rub it in
 like salt in a wound
 like the grit in a cut when you were a kid. 
 Watch the white mix with the red
 to foam and fizz pink
 and spread like a colony far and wide
 across a field of stains. 
  
 Stains from years ago, 
 stains from last night, 
 they never quite go away
 they stay there in the carpet 
 to leer, and to taunt, they stay
 to haunt each waking moment
 like a great tapestry
  
 of every grief, every joy
 or a map, a museum, 
 if you will, of every memory
 good or bad;
 but carpet cleaner scours it all, 
 leaving only those stains 
 that never go away. 
  
 Detergent,
 heavy scent
 smothering a stronger stench.
 Too much wine
 tears and blood 
 broken glass. 
 Salt in the wound
 Grit in the cut
 It will never go away