There are the things that were,
the hardwood table,
the shadows of its legs
like buzzards
on the white tile.

There are the things that could have been,
a line of half-empty bottles,
the liquid and glass
spinning the ephemeral light.

Then there are the things that never were
and never could have been,
the too-cold white ice milk,
the spotless mirror
behind the kitchen door
reflecting the two of us.