There's something aesthetic in ice and bubbles
And the perfect square napkin
is another matter altogether.
Carbonation leaps from the sugary murk like
fleas from a dog.
I always order Coke.
Bubbles clot to the surface and dance in pairs.
The ice is clear and cracked;
sparkling hollow pillars of glass.
Gingerale masquerades as champagne in the aisle across from me.
My drink looks like mud but tastes better:
Dirt soup for gods.
I share their cloudy vantage but
find inspiration in the gutted Peek Frean wrapper.
It tries so hard to glisten like my cola.
When the chalice empties it will race across my plastic table.
Spurred by movement (the Dash 8 roars)
Reined by friction
I know too much of Physics to appreciate.
Beads of gold cling to the glass.
The ice sparkles, gem-like, and I eat it.
I am a hungry kleptomaniac.
She collects my can and plastic cup -
the former to recycle
the latter just to dream.
I press my banquet to the ugly, faded backdrop of 1A.
Caffeine makes me pick my nails.
I know it isn't good for me,
but there's something aesthetic in ice and bubbles.
Author notes
...haven't written poetry in ages, lemme know what you think.
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