By Sonam Kaloti, Arts Editor
White like the tiles
in the bathroom
or on the kitchen floor.
Cold, my toes press
against the tiles
as I traverse
towards the
fridge.
Exuberant in youth-
fullness with
strawberry, chocolate.
Not soy.
Plain was silk enough
so good I’d say;
downing one
two three
twenty—
far too many.
My toes
have had enough
of this bathroom floor.
The tiles are cold.
So am I.
