Edge of the Counter

The coffee ring is a brown, translucent map

drying on the yellowed, speckled plains.

I’m tracing the rim of a cigarette burn,

a dark, charred crater in the fake wood grain.

Underneath the shine, it’s just pressed paper and glue,

a layers-deep lie that’s held up since the seventies.

It’s seen a thousand breakfasts, a million late-night stews,

and the slow, steady hum of different miseries.

I pick at the loose strip of black plastic trim

where the glue gave up and the water got in.

The rain on the window makes the streetlights go dim

while the Formica stays cold against my chin.

It’s a surface built for spills, for the easy wipe-away,

for things that aren't supposed to leave a mark.

I’m just waiting for the sky to turn a bruised kind of gray

so I can leave this table and walk into the dark.