Poem for Friday, October 17, 2014

Spilling Wine in Your Kitchen

When the wine leapt from the bottle
into the air, your shriek became
a quartet of violins.

A hurricane of red had smashed against
the side of the refrigerator, the kitchen
wall, our newly washed skin.

Confronted with this aftermath, we began
our work, scrubbing each blemish
with paper towels and water.

But somewhere, a single drop remains
inconspicuous, embedded like history
in white gypsum, reminding us

that time is not meant to erase
                                                everything,
                                                anything.