Interval

The dial tone was still humming

when I let the cube slip.

It hit the laminate with a plastic thud

and skated toward the toaster.

I didn't pick it up.

I watched the edges round off,

turning from a sharp salt-white

to something slick and clear.

There was a breadcrumb left from breakfast,

a dry bit of crust.

The water reached for it slowly,

soaking the grit until it bloated,

trapped in a small, lukewarm lake.