Night's Cast-offs

The half-full glass, dark in the dark,

tripped by my searching hand.

Water spread, a widening mark

on the pharmacy receipt, contraband

from yesterday's quiet shame.

The nail file, too, caught in the spill.

My phone, charger still tangled, tame.

A pill bottle, empty, sits there still.

Just detritus, really. Proof

of the night's small, clumsy moves.

Another stain on the warped proof

of living, what it sometimes proves.