Sullen Cod

From hot to cold
Lukewarm to tepid
A layer of skin
Covers the coffee cup

Wrinkled and fragile
It cracks along the edges
where the sandy substance sways
moved by high-pitched voices:

“How long has this been sitting here?”
“Don’t bother lifting your little finger.”

It’s a shrill sound,
caught in the small of a throat

A cod flapping around trapped
in a tight space
Saddened, suffocating,
thrashing its fins against soft pink flesh
Thump, thump, thump
A slow, drawn-out tribal rhythm
beats like the blood pulsing in her temple

She sighs as she lays her hands
on the hard cool counter
She looks instinctively for cigarettes,
forgetting that they quit.