Dew Point

The diner air is thick with grease and heat,

but the water in this plastic cup is ice.

I watch a single bead begin to cheat

the rim and travel downward, slow and precise.

It pools at the bottom in a heavy swell,

soaking the napkin until the paper dies.

It’s a cold barrier I can feel quite well,

a wall of moisture masking all the lies.

I trace a line through the fog with my thumb,

marking the glass while I wait for the chime.

My fingertips are starting to go numb,

just killing time, just killing so much time.