A white
ceramic
mug
placed on the edge of the table,
a semi-circle ring jutting out over the precipice.
Coffee sitting stagnant in its belly,
tasting colder,
staler,
with each sip.
Leaving a stained rime on the virgin white
where it has receded.
It sits there, inches away from my hand.
Nails bitten down,
discolored
patches dry and flaky,
wrinkles beginning to show.
I watch,
from the corner of my eye.
The mug.
So brittle.
Already lines
in the places I know it would break apart
if it fell.
when it fell.
My hand heavy on the table,
turned lead with the power
of possibility,
the what if.
The I could.
I see the liquid
spreading across the tiles,
pungent,
seeping out from between sharp edges
of ceramic shards.
Spreading still,
down tracks of grout.
Until a faceless person
lays down a rag and sops the mess up.
Sweeps the stained-ivory pieces aside,
throws the whole deal in a trash can to be driven away
the next morning.
But my hand has not moved yet,
and still the mug sits with a semi-circle of rim jutting over the precipice,
and my hand tensed,
and watching
watching
waiting,
waiting.

Waiting.