The cereal bowl is a heavy piece of silver

The cereal bowl is a heavy piece of silver.

I try to keep the milk from spilling,

but my thumb is still on the warehouse floor,

pulling a plastic trigger that isn't there.

The tendon in my wrist snaps

like a dry rubber band hitting its limit.

A rhythmic twitch, a ghost in the nerves,

clocking in for a shift I already finished.

My hand is still a tool for the company.

It hasn't realized yet

that we are finally home.