Polishing the Surface

The phone won't stop its frantic, high-pitched scream.

I reach and miss, the ceramic mug tips over,

bleeding a dark circle across the wood.

It looks like a hole opening up in the floor.

But the liquid just sits there, tight and round,

beading against the heavy, chemical shine.

This table is fake, or at least it's well-defended,

armored in a finish that won't let anything through.

I scrub until my knuckles turn a bruised white,

watching the coffee swirl but never sink.

It’s easier to maintain this hard, false bright

than to admit the grain underneath is ready to drink.