Dissolution

The voice on the line is a steady hum,

a list of things I haven't done.

I watch the cube on the counter stay,

waiting for it to slide away.

The corners go soft, then turn to glass,

while the slow, heavy minutes pass.

The center stays cloudy, a stubborn white,

clinging to the cold with all its might.

It’s a small, clear puddle by the sink,

smaller than you’d ever think.

Just a wet spot where the solid stood,

leaving for the drain, for good.