Downward Pressure

The glass slipped right through my hand.

I watched it hit the linoleum floor.

I didn't move. I didn't stand.

I don't know what I'm waiting for.

My face in the mirror is sliding south,

the jawline softening into a bag.

There’s a heavy set to the edge of my mouth,

a permanent, slow-motion sag.

I reached the landing, almost home,

when the grocery handle finally tore.

Cans of soup and a plastic comb

went bouncing down to the bottom floor.