The Patience of Drinking Water

Between the numbers 32 and 33,
There exists a perfect drink for me.
Mechanized ice shifts and cracks away,
Refreezing formations that won’t stay
At least not while I tap my glass
Waiting for its stick to pass
As I drink each droplet that goes
Down the cup before my nose
Is attacked by the ice age contained
In the glass I’ve drained.

Patience will quench my thirst
When a new burst
Of ice trickling calls
And a new formation falls,
But for now I’ll wait with my glass in a ring of ice sweat,
Making a circle in concrete wet.