Vial

The shelf is cluttered, cramped, and deep,

where half-used pills and powders sleep.

I reach behind a rusted tin

and feel the plastic rattle thin.

The bottle tips—a heavy thud.

It doesn't break or spill its flood,

but casts a shadow, dark and wide,

like where a heavy blow would hide.

The porcelain is stained and cold,

a cobalt bruise in white and gold.