Third Floor Landing

The plastic handle gave up on the second flight,

fatigued by the weight of two-for-one pasta sauce.

I watched the glass jar tumble through the gap

between the railing and the metal edge,

a heavy, spinning blur against the gray.

It hit the concrete with a sharp, metallic ring,

a sound that climbed the walls like a frantic bird

before the final wet thud of the break.

The vibration traveled up through the soles of my shoes,

shaking the dust off the overhead light.

Down in the pit of the landing,

a red stain is widening on the cement,

thick and smelling of garlic and iron.