Red 40

The glass didn’t just break; it gave up the ghost.

A spray of seeds and vinegar against the white

baseboard, a loud, stupid mess at midnight.

I’m standing here holding a piece of dry toast.

It’s a chemical wound on the kitchen floor,

a bright, aggressive bleed of cheap dye

creeping toward the cracks where the wood is dry.

It’ll stay there. I’m not scrubbing anymore.