overflow

& i say stop
because the glass of water
is overflowing but the waiter
is still pouring
from the metal sweating pitcher 

when did we end up at
a restaurant? i think 
& then i realize i'm just 
alone in my house & there
is no waiter just a glass
of water that won't stop spilling,

tipped over 
a steady gush
the hard wooden floor slick
with water. if it were
a restaurant i could
order something & i decide
i would order a short stack
of pancakes

not because it want pancakes
but because i could take
the cruet of syrup & spill
that too & the plate could
overflow with 
sticky thick dripping.

a river of maple syrup.
a glass of water spilling so 
long it turns to maple syrup:
that loud amber smell.

a maple tree overflows from
outside & comes in through
the window--glass turning to water
a splash of breaking.

pancakes as blankets
piled on top of my by 
a waiter who isn't here:
a notepad 
taking my word for it.

my skin overflowing too,
taking after the impulse 
of the tree. i tell no one
"stop" & i think about

how overflowing is a kind
of escape & i want to knock
over every glass of liquid
i see from now on.

orange juice trickles  
down from the ceiling where
upstairs my neighbor also must 
be making use of 
this same freedom.

i take all the glasses from 
the cupboard & overflow them:
lemon juice, teas, hot sauce,
cola, ranch dressing--

each eventually reaching
that limit where they can
hold nothing more--
that instant where the body
of the glass is not enough
to contain all this something.

i crouch down
to peer at all the glasses
& their contents. 

the glass hides nothing,
not even how full. 

i would make 
a better glass than a person.