Countertop Geology

My forearm pressed to the cool Formica,

a slight stick, an old smell, like some kind of replica

of a thousand other mornings. The grease

shines faintly, offering no peace.

I see the ghost rings, where coffee sat,

decades of mugs, where minds would chat.

And a tiny chip, right by a sugar packet,

revealing the dark undercoat, like a torn jacket.

This surface, so plain, so without pretense,

holds a history of careless defense.

Of spilled milk, of elbows, of arguments low.

Just layers of life, nowhere to go.