In the mouth of my new water
bottle there is a flaw — a trick of
flicked flashing on the screw, a little
fin that catches a light's breadth.
It provokes me. The flashing cuts into
the softer tread of the plastic stopper:
scoring lines. I fear this marred
perfection. I determine to return it, but
break a patterned habit against the
stress. If I can accept this flaw
I buy in myself a bigger store: a
stock of held resistance.