The Glass I Left Full

Seven years ago. A conference room.

They set a glass of water where I sat.

I answered all the questions. Said the words.

I never touched it. That was that—

the whole interview, the glass untouched.

The panel of three. The one

who mispronounced my name and moved on.

I said five years. When it was done

I shook three hands and found my coat.

The glass still full beside my chair.

The elevator. The parking structure.

Thursday. The email. Thanks-but. The air

I breathed between Tuesday and Thursday,

knowing. Seven years. This week,

an email footer with a logo

like theirs—not exact. A streak

of twenty minutes I can't account for.

The conference room. The water.

The glass I left full when I walked out.

Something I should have brought to the border

of my mouth. I don't know

what I was waiting for. The glass.

The untouched water. The door I left through.

The afternoon I let pass.