No One to Tell Me to Sit Down

Six weeks since the table left.

I gave it to someone who needed it.

I keep telling myself I'll replace it.

This morning it was a nectarine

and the juice ran all the way to my elbow

before I noticed.

I noticed because it hit the drain.

That sound—not even a sound.

The parking spot across the street

has been empty since Tuesday.

I don't know what that means for whoever parks there.

I've been meaning to ask.

The pit was wrinkled, slick.

I put it in the trash.

I'm forty-three.

I stood at the sink with juice drying on my arm

for longer than I can explain to anyone,

including myself.

No one said sit down.

No one said you're going to get that on yourself.

No one said anything.

That's not a complaint.

It's just what the morning was—

grey light, empty spot, the drain,

the nectarine doing what nectarines do

when there's nowhere to sit

and nobody's watching

and you just let it run.