The towel is threadbare and the water's hot

The towel is threadbare and the water's hot,

I was rubbing the grease from the heavy rim.

Thinking about the things I have forgot,

and why the kitchen light is getting dim.

The serving bowl slipped through my soapy hand

and hit the rug with a heavy, hollow sound.

It didn't shatter like I might have planned,

or send a thousand pieces across the ground.

It just split open into two clean halves,

showing the chalky, unglazed bone inside.

Like one of those diagrams or those graphs

where there’s nowhere for the truth to hide.