Sunny was trying to scrub out a stain, with her yolk-brush and her flowery hammer and her and her lingering scratcher and her tiring hands were easing the grease into a sunny day escaping.

Sunny was trying to scrub out a stain, with her Brillo blob and her rusted quilly scour-pad and her spray-bottle of caustic squirt, and her despairing hands were uncovering deeper-downs of the same deep mess, as if the mess she first attacked was a mere puny mess with a grown-up mess under it.

Parts of the mess would almost rub away but they would still be there, like a flower’s jealous memories