The Spoon Test

Friday the number sat in my account

like a fact I hadn't earned yet.

I drove to the grocery store

and sat in the parking lot

watching the automatic doors open

for nobody.

I bought the olive oil I'd always passed—

Italian, small bottle, dark glass,

half the price tag still stuck

to the bottom when I got it home.

That night I tasted it off a spoon.

Stood at the counter.

Waited.

It tasted like olive oil—

good, I think, better than what I usually buy,

and the kitchen was the same kitchen,

the ceiling the same low ceiling,

the window over the sink

still facing the wall of the building next door.

I stood there a while

with the spoon.