The sleekness of ‘carafe,’
the simple ergonomic
beauty of the word.

The orange juice in the curving glass
condensing on the kitchen table.
Things taste better from glass,
a few days of paper carton
taints every cup. Even plastic jugs
seep into skim milk, turning it bland
to match its watery whiteness.

The squat glass jar poised
near the spotless
bowls, spoons, and empty cup.

The liquids, remembering
all of the glass in the cupboard, the refrigerator
filled with thick pans of leftovers
and smooth bowls of salad.

The lines of the faucet
curving elegantly, not dripping
into the muted stainless steel
filled with clear, drying dishes.

The silver drain bending, warping
in the light from the cloudy window. The greyness.