Orange Juice
Hear the rustle of the morning
paper; his face is hidden, lips
tight – dreaming of his name
in headlines.
My elbow knocks a cup of
orange juice, it slowly spreads –
his toast is soaked – as one
drip follows another as it creates
a thin line, one drip followed
by another – off our old painted
metal table onto his pressed pants.
The linoleum – coated yesterday –
freshly polished like his shoes.
I am hiding beneath the table –
he never saw me enter the
kitchen: His head buried
while reading the news.
I hold tight to
a rusted leg of our table.
The juice drips faster – he
continues to read – now, the juice forms
into a puddle – turning a deeper
shade of orange.
The edge of his paper begins to
drink juice too – he still doesn’t
notice it, and I am still hiding
beneath the table, waiting for his
morning ritual to end.
Soon he will notice the orange
liquid, dripping down one pant
leg.
