Close Enough

I was two feet away. I felt the air

shift when the mug tipped over the edge.

That small displacement. The brief affair

between falling and whatever's pledged

to catch it. My hand was right there.

I know where it was.

I watched the coffee arc. The ceramic's bare

single rotation. The long pause

before the floor. Then the floor.

She came with paper towels. She swept.

Don't worry, it's fine—she said it. More

than once. I stood there. Accepted

the fine, the don't worry. The mug

had her name on it. She put the pieces

in the trash and left. The drug

of standing there. The slow releases

of a moment you can't stay in.

Two feet. One second. Open hands.