little poem

my MacBook is running late.

It’s old and stained.

I should track the stains down,–– 

down to from whence they came,

down to their origins, down to the errant

slips of the tongue caused by

the fork’s inadequacy to hold on to its goods.

the little plops upon the silvery platform are dark

stones dropped to a glistening snow.

this is a poem of stains because something of note

had to become of them.