it wasn’t the bowl

it wasn’t the bowl

or the left over pots that were too far gone

that littered the kitchen, with stains that catch each glimmer of light

like remnants of coal,

or a forgotten birthday

it wasn’t the bowl

nor the footsteps at break of dawn

trekking muddied, slurred, broken dreams forth to bite

like wading through a sinking hole,

or the sting of a drunkard

it wasn’t the bowl

whose oatmeal stains would be rinsed on

and would swirl down the drain and out of sight

but it wasn’t just a bowl.