Other Peoples' Houses

When I clean your house
I count every stain I have made:
the waxy iron melt on the upstairs carpet,
cat piss and
vomit,
salsa behind the oven,
white film in the refrigerator,
a gouge on your dining room hardwood,
faded blood on your son's mattress,
gummy build up of dust and soap scum
in the corners of the shower.

I have marked my passing in your house
in splintered glass and toenails,
leaving the oils from my palms on your walls.
You will not know that I lived here
while you were gone,
only that someone did.