Don’t Cry

It’s not just the spill. It’s
the menacing splinters
and shards that hide in any crevice,
any grout runnel, lurking like micro-icebergs
in the white puddles, all patient and inert, ready
to slice into your blameless feet, hungry
to siphon your blood.
Not to mention the wasted
paper towels, the sponge and dish rag
that have to be tossed
after slowly soaking up both
milk and all those sparkly, crab-nasty things.
No, not just the spill and the clean-up
and the way you once could and no longer can
make light of it.
But also the fact
that it’s happened before.
And will again.
And will again.