Inventory

"Save the good glass for the party," she said,

tucking the flutes in a box near the bed.

I found them last April, thick with the dust

of a decade of waiting and habits of trust.

The sink is a swamp of gray water and sludge,

where the grease and the spinach refuse to budge.

I fumbled the stem, heard the snap of the spine,

and ruined the last of her vintage design.

It sits in the grounds, a bright tooth in the muck,

a sharp little piece of her god-awful luck.

The party she promised was never invited;

the world just moved on, and the glass went unlighted.