Several days afterward, I found your snifter
lying in the cranny between sofa and table,
having come to rest next to the wall
after being brushed aside during the party.
The cats hadn't bothered it—yet—
but the dust was starting to stick, feather-
soft, to the rounded rim and fluted bowl.
I reached out to it, one breast pressed flat
against the side of the couch as my fingers
danced tantalizingly close, closer, and finally
brought the elusive glassware within reach.
Victorious, I cupped it with my fingers
and brought it gently to my nose, in an airy
remembrance of its previous usage.
Even when empty, it held remembrance
of contents long poured and forgotten:
a smudge of cognac, half-evaporated,
and the faintly bitter scent of coffee.