Evaporation Policy

The compressor died at four.

Now the air is a wet wool blanket

draped over the furniture.

I dropped the cube

and let it stay.

It’s shrinking on the Formica,

losing its sharp corners,

pulling the spilled salt

and the grey grit of the morning

into its widening center.

A miniature lake

with no fish,

just the dirt of a life

held in suspension

until the floorboards drink it up.