The ice is clicking against the side

The ice is clicking against the side,

a slow and a hollow sound.

I’m looking for somewhere small to hide

while the world is spinning around.

A bead of water begins to slide

down the fog of the freezing glass.

It’s taking a long and a jagged ride

while I wait for the hour to pass.

My thumb leaves a smudge in the gray-white mist,

a blur on the cold, hard rim.

I’m making a tight and a shaking fist

while the kitchen light goes dim.