little poem

my MacBook’s running late.

It’s old and marked with blotches

of who knows what through the years.

I should track the blotches down, down to

from whence they came, to their original

colors, their original flavors, to the errant

slips of the tongue, the fork’s inadequacy

to hold on to its goods,–– the little

plops upon the silvery platform,–– like dark

stones dropped to a glistening snow.

this is a poem of stains.

something good had to become of them.