I’m like the can
of soda left in the fridge
that my clumsy son
knocks over. I spill out

on the floor. I stick
to it as lipstick
to a cigarette. Even as
the boy wipes it up

there’s a spot here –
and a spot there. The spot
hides under the chair. So, even
as I wash the floor

the spot blends
into its surroundings. As it does
it dries, and is crusted, as a brook
after a drought. No bubbling water –
the rocks jet out.