Retrieve

The thermos was in the back seat

for eight months. Coffee gone to mold—

a green ring in the lid, a smell like peat

and rot. I should have been told

by that alone to throw it out. I did.

Walked it to the trash, dropped it in.

Went inside. Sat down. I hid

from the decision for maybe ten

minutes before I went back out

and fished it from the can.

The mold rinsed off. I don't doubt

it was stupid. But the plan

to throw away a whole thermos

because of one bad trip I took

alone, after a fight—the purpose

of that gesture had the look

of someone being dramatic on a Tuesday.

And I refuse to be that person.

So the thermos is clean. And it's here to stay

in the cabinet, where things worsen

quietly—where the mugs I don't use

pile up behind the ones I do.

I went back for it. I refuse

to explain that. Even to you.