Pour with Flair

You get good at things like that

when you're alone: pouring water

into old spaghetti jars from cold containers

in the fridge. You build

a bridge of curling solace over

the dry faucet, intent at not spilling a drip;

like waterfall ice, you get lost

in the transmission, unable to tell

whether it's rising or falling until

it gurgles then sheens and fills up;

before you've finished there's a full cup.

So pull the container,

pull away the jar, swing

across the kitchen tile

like a flourishing conductor

in a grande finale pulling

every note apart and stringing

each back together in a prayer

bowed, precise.