Stained Page

The refrigerator seal is a high-pitched hum.

I’m sitting on the couch, the plate

balanced on the bony shelf of my knees.

The hot sauce drips before I can catch it,

a bright orange dot landing right

in the middle of a sentence about

sailing across the Mediterranean.

Now the hero is swimming in vinegar and salt,

and I’m just chewing,

listening to the neighbor’s radiator click.