Past Its Stretch

It had been on the floor so long

I'd stopped seeing it. I picked it up, gave the strong

automatic pull—the reflex stretch

of elastic under tension—and the catch

was nothing. Snap. Two pieces

in my palm. No drama. No creases

in the air from it. Just the dry curl

of each end turning in. The world

kept going. I set them on the counter.

Stood there a full minute under

the kitchen light. Then threw them out.

Poured my coffee. Went about

the morning. Still thinking about the floor,

the space. What else is lying there in store,

past its stretch, still looking fine,

still holding to its line.