Grounds

The machine in the kitchen is clearing its throat,

a violent, wet hiss that cuts through the slump

of four in the afternoon when the light

gets long and gold and starts to feel like a threat.

I haven't washed this mug since the argument

on Tuesday, the brown rings at the bottom

forming a record of every hour I spent

staring at the fridge and waiting for a sign.

It’s not the caffeine, it’s the heat in the ceramic,

the way the black surface holds an oily sheen

under the bare bulb, a small, dark mirror

that tells me the day isn't over yet,

even if the structure of it is leaning

and the silence is starting to taste like metal.