Surface Tension

The spray bottle is heavy in my hand,

blue liquid dripping onto the rug.

The sun slants low and sharp,

cutting through the dust of the living room

to find the sliding door.

There, where the cable guy leaned,

is the ghost of a palm.

A greasy whorl of skin oil

pressed hard against the glass,

holding the light in a smudged grip.

I stop the rag before it touches.