The tree rings on the desk are skin-deep,
playing pretend with particle board beneath
yesterday's paper veneer,
a guaranteed surface that has only grown
pruney from my cup's circular condensation
and rippled where I haven't picked at it.
Fake wood desks don't scab.
There's a wedding ring in the puddle,
ninety-two point five percent real
and unfiltered H two Oh, and I am
too focused on the keyboard to see the band
looks a little like Saturn—too far away
to say whether it's looped with stardust
or just fat—or that the water stains have set.
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