Gravity and Apathy

The jar of Dijon was too heavy for the shelf.

It rolled, a slow and golden weight,

and I stood with my hands at my sides,

curious to see how it would negotiate the tile.

It didn't bounce.

It became a jagged star of yellow mud and grit.

I didn't reach for a towel or a broom;

I just stepped over the sharpest bit

and walked to the bedroom in the dark.

There is a single shard still wedged in the pine,

a clear tooth biting the floor,

proving the mess is entirely mine.