Structural Fatigue

The phone buzzed on the nightstand at six-ten.

His voice was gravel, asking for a favor—

the kind of ask that’s really a command.

I told you I'd stay home. I said it then.

But work is the only thing that doesn't waver.

The mug slipped while I reached for the light.

It hit the floor and split in three clean parts.

The tea is bleeding out into the tile,

a brown and bitter lake, a messy sight.

I’m leaving for the shop in just a while.