Insulated

The tea is room temperature now,

the exact degree of the air I breathe.

Three hours staring at a smudge on the wall

while the steam died inside the steel sleeve.

There is a dent near the base,

a shallow crater from a move or a fall

I don't actually remember.

It’s been through three offices and two names,

and when I unscrew the plastic cap,

the rim is ringed with a brown, stubborn stain.

It smells like old damp and recycled heat,

a small, bitter history I carry on the train.