Saturation Point

The rain came down in sheets of lead,

so I ducked through the heavy oak doors

and sat in the back row where it smelled like floor wax.

I didn't have anything to say to the ceiling.

Downstairs, in the basement, the kettle whistled.

A woman in a cardigan handed me a styrofoam cup,

the steam rising up to hit my cold nose.

I watched the white granules hit the surface,

a miniature storm of sugar spinning down,

vanishing into the bitter brown heat

until there was nothing left to see.