waste: losing

I knock things over.
Dishes slip out of my hands
and break against the sink.

In the past that was it,
I would break dishes
as my life broke itself
from its holding,
become clumsier,
and sigh unsurprised
as another mug bit the dust.

Now I have gone from the old
flea market cup
to your best watch
in a pretty twelve-foot dive,
blood-red nail polish,
vinaigrette,
and eggs.

Crimson polish pools cling to the floor
like blood,
brown balsamic huddles
in an oil cell by the door,
the eggs tip and mica white
holds out against the stone counter.

I have taken to admiring my work
and lean in to inspect
before setting to clear it up,
a conciliatory gesture,
the good hand shaking the clumsy one.

The phone one day soon
will ring with her last breath,
ring itself right off the wall.

A fine mess.