Absorbent

Upstairs they are dropping things that sound like

heavy books or bodies, and the bass is a pulse

in my molars, so I’m here with the spray

and this piece of yellow foam that is giving up.

It’s shredded at the corners, a gray, porous lung

that has inhaled too much of the coffee spills

and the grease from the bacon on Sunday.

When I squeeze it, the water is the color of

a storm drain, warm and slick between my knuckles,

and the thing just collapses, a wet, useless heart,

leaving a trail of grit across the laminate

instead of taking anything away.