Percolation

I walked through the door with my keys in my mouth,

the grocery list having gone entirely south.

The milk is still sitting in the dairy-case light,

while I’m standing here in the middle of night.

I kicked off my boots and I took a big stride,

right into the bowl where the water had lied.

The ceramic was brimming, a shallow, clear lake,

the first of a dozen mistakes I will make.

The wool started thirsty and ended up cold,

turning a heavy and dark shade of gold—

no, gray—as it traveled from toe to the arch,

stalling the rhythm of my homeward-bound march.