The Stain

The residue remains: I wonder
If it will ever come out.
We have scrubbed it hard
With pure, white soap
That foamed and bubbled
On the counter, and splashed it
With a fresh, watery rag
Before wiping it dry.
Then the counter
Sparkled,
But so did the stain. Indeed,
We have lived with it so long that we take it
For part of the house, just as looking up
You'd never think the ceiling hid the sky
Or that under the floor there was dirt --
So you'd never think that the pure use of lumber
Could be covered darkly. But still,
The incongruity annoys us --
Always when we glanced over that place
We have felt there was some incompleteness
We could not look under or go past,
But which remained, all the same --
Yes, always the same. So by turns
The stain has seeped into our minds
Until we are sure it was something about ourselves,
Something forgotten or misplaced,
The sense of what was lost
Or what could not be found.