From the back of a drawer

From the back of a drawer,

where old batteries curdled

and paper clips rusted,

it appeared. Glass tube,

cool and thin.

The mercury,

a silver thread,

held perfectly still

at 70 degrees.

Dormant. No fever,

no sudden cold snap,

no boiling point. Just

the neutral truth.

It waits. To quantify

a shift. A small,

fragile instrument

of measure. It doesn't

care if the numbers rise

or fall. It just marks

the change. And holds

the quiet, heavy weight

of knowing.