Grout

The grout's a humble, gritty mate, Not flashy, but it holds the slate. In bathroom white or kitchen blue, It's where the patient work comes through.

You mix it up, a paste so thick, With sponge and effort, make it stick. Between the tiles, you press it deep, While dusty traces softly creep.

Then comes the swipe, the damp cloth's glide, Whisking excess to left and right. Revealing lines both straight and true, A job well done, a brighter view.

No fanfare sounds for this modest stuff, Yet walk on floors that feel enough. The grout, unnoticed, does its part— The quiet favourite of every heart.