on hands and knees

on my hands and knees,

like my Philadelphia grandmother,
Lena Orsini.
i go
out and scrub

the front porch
with a hot bucket of soapy
water,

a brush, a rag,
a towel.

it's a cold day, but the porch
needs cleaning.

i'm out there for an hour
or two.
a raw wind in my face,

going at it hard.
my knuckles bleed into
the concrete

as they scrape across
the slab.
i realize what i'm doing,

i'm not fool, although
others may disagree, i know

that this has nothing to do
with the porch,

but has a deeper more
metaphorical
meaning.

i'll get it clean yet.
i'll remove all
memory

of what was.
my determination is nothing

if not persistent.