Olympic Level Reflexes for Nothing

She’s talking about her promotion in marketing,

and the guy next to her has a book deal,

and I’m just trying not to vibrate out of my skin

until the grape rolls off the edge of the mahogany.

I didn't even think. My foot just shot out,

a frantic, desperate hinge—I caught it

with the bridge of my foot, pinned it against

the rug before it could leave a stain.

A miracle. A genuine, unrepeatable feat

of useless physics. The purple skin is sticky

against the cotton of my sock, and I want to say

Did you see? Did you see I’m good for something?

But they’re talking about year-end projections.

I just sit there with a crushed fruit

under my arch, smiling like I’m part of the room

while my foot feels like a heavy, secret trophy.