The only outcome that is not inevitable

My sister has just now finished
sweeping wiping scrubbing scouring polishing
the kitchen, some of it with a toothbrush, but
the coffee grounds in their big shiny can
with the red plastic lid are restless.
They want out. Now.
No kitchen was ever meant to be this clean. Even the Gods
are crabby because even their kitchens have the odd
splotch of spaghetti sauce by the back burner
or the greasy dusty merger in the corner of the splashboard.
My sister doesn’t think of herself
as tempting fate, but it’s a fact,
and the agents of her plummet from the heights of hubris
know she’s eventually going to want
to take a coffee break.
The red lid cinches itself
down a little tighter.
The grounds, massing just below the can’s jagged edge,
poise to spring.
It is a dreadful trajectory.
The only outcome that is not inevitable
is my sister’s outcry,
practically any extreme of which is probably forgivable
at this point. The Gods themselves lean in close
to listen, elbowing each other in the ribs as my sister surveys
a hundred thousand jagged shards of coffee lodged
in every nook and cranny and crevice possible.
Perhaps my sister senses her Audience of Eavesdroppers
as she takes a deep breath, exclaims, “Good golly, Miss Molly!”
then turns on the faucet and dampens the sponge.