Grounds for Leaving

The carafe gave up at six a.m.

It didn’t shatter so much as surrender,

spilling the dark, oily heat

across the tiles I haven't scrubbed in weeks.

I looked at the wet grounds

clinging to the teeth of the glass

like a mouth full of dirt.

I could go to the store, I guess.

But there’s only one mug in the sink

and nobody left to ask why

the kitchen smells like a burnt habit

I finally have the guts to quit.