Bottled Up

You grabbed the five ounce bottle

of Tabasco sauce by the screw top lid.

Only the last person to use it, probably you,

failed to screw it back on and it immediately fell,

splattering hot sauce onto the crotch of your pants

and the synthetic distressed looking

blue and white Persian rug below.

“I’m not doing too well here,” you announce.

You wipe up the mess with damp paper towels,

but the spicy sticky liquid has sunk deep into the fibers. 

You could not get that sauce back in the bottle,

but even if you could,… You would not want to,

adulterated as it is by the grit in the rug

and the innuendo from the pants.