Into a glass

Drip.  Drop.  Drip.
We sip- it slips- we slipped-
Cut lips beg with
a "f**k" and "forget it"
and we sip-
dripping electric without

being lit, cut, or cued
suiting you and my misplaced
tryst of poise that hangs from
the swift grit-green of your eyes;
still as voracious as ever,
picking apart my skin like childhood

clichés with a
rip, slit, and split-
as easy as  twelve dollar accusations
slip from angry hands
to hit strips of asphalt as it
sits-

unable to riposte or quip
that it can do nothing with words
or a poor excuse for a meal-
it’s asphalt.
And when tires squeal away
just according to script,

it wonders why it has such an
inherent flaw as to catch drips,
slips, and spits, but never
conversation-
and then it wonders
why it ever listens at all.