Surface Tension

The beer is getting warm, but I’m still here,

watching the moisture bead up on the side.

A slow, heavy drip like a cold, silver tear

with nowhere to run and nowhere to hide.

I trace a line through the fog of the sweat

and watch the water collect on the board.

A map of the things I haven't done yet,

of the minutes I’ve wasted and cannot afford.

The napkin is sodden, a gray, pulpy ring

expanding its borders across the scarred wood.

It’s a messy and quiet and repetitive thing,

to stay in a place where I shouldn't have stood.