Dear 2nd Floor Janitor,
by Brontë Goodspeed Gross
I woke up today and found
that we had trashed our communal kitchen.
I drew my name in the flour that coated
the counters—better to own it.
But, I wish I had really cooked the ramen,
last night’s noodles crunching under my feet
like the broken bodies of beetles.
I wish I had made the beet soup
that stained the counters
the deep, sticky purple of a black eye.
I wish I had soaked the scattered peas
Uncorked the wine, scattered the napkins,
Left the yogurt out to fester.
Then I could turn to you, in
the shadows of the kitchen
and say, I was cooking when my
friend threw up, when my dog
ran away, when my dad
called and told me my mom died.
Instead, all I can say is
sorry.
And watch you slowly bend
to sweep the floors
and wipe the counters,
just like you do every morning.
And everyone tells me
that my generation is the one
that will save the world.
Showers by Eleanor Billington
77