Years ago I cut my hand.
My blood is there
somewhere between the burnt orange tiles
Some ten thousand moppings later.
Does it still make it mine?

A hole in the wall,
Gone but not forgotten,
I can see the seams in the brick
where the glass was,
Cutting off all access from one side,
The side all could see from the highway.

But now, if you go next door,
You can see my kitchen still,
Behind the deli counter,
Beneath the brighter lights.
Is my blood still there?

All the stainless is new
And shiny.
The tile walls shine white again.
Hmmmm, I can see myself.
My kitchen has grown,
As have I.