Sodium and Water

The lid was stuck, a stubborn tin-sealed jaw,

until I used the towel for better grip.

I am my own worst nurse, a drafty flaw

in a house that smells of damp and menthol strip.

The metal spoon went sliding past the rim

and sank into the lukewarm, salty red.

I fished it out, the liquid thick and dim,

and burnt my thumb before I went to bed.

An orange ring of oil begins to dry

against the chipped mug’s white and ceramic face.

It’s hard to find a reason not to cry

when even dinner leaves a messy trace.