87/365: oil

Whenever I pour olive oil
I find I've spilled some on my fingers.
It seems a requirement
that a drop or two
slips down somehow to my index finger,
or into the crotch of my thumb.

Today it's there on the ridge
of my middle finger
and rather than wipe it with a paper towel
I press it into my hand
feeling the warm slickness.

I contemplate the green glass bottle
that holds the rest of the oil
like the bottles and jugs and barrels
that flow backward millennia
connected by this gentle thing.