The Spill

The subway stairs are a trap for the tired,

for the folks whose ambition has long since expired.

I saw her go down and apologize too,

and it brought back the night I was looking at you.

The tray hit the table, the glasses went wide,

and I felt like a thing that had nowhere to hide.

A dark stain of soda, a bloom on the rug,

I waited for judgment, a sneer, or a shrug.

But you took your napkin and blotted my shoe,

quiet and steady, like you already knew

that being a mess is the price that we pay

for trying to make it through one more day.