Room Temperature

It must have jumped when I poured the gin

or slipped through my fingers like a wet stone.

It’s sitting on the formica, losing its skin,

entirely clear and entirely alone.

The edges are softening, turning to lake,

a puddle that’s reaching for the stack of the mail.

It’s making a map out of every mistake,

a slow-motion wreck on a very small scale.

By the time I get back with a towel for the mess,

the ice will be gone and the water will stay.

It’s a quiet reduction, a little bit less

of the solid world that is drifting away.