The Dregs

You’re saying something about the lease,

about the way I never look at you.

I’m watching the cream in my mug

skin over, a beige and wrinkly film

that looks like the back of an old hand.

The ceramic has gone room-temp.

I set it down on the stack of mail

and when I lift it, there’s a ring

soaked into the notice of arrears.

A dark, wet circle

perfect as a zero.