Pouring Hot Water into the Snow

Close to quitting time
I turned off the coffeepot I use
for tea and carried the glass carafe
out of the break room and walked
through the cold warehouse.
The water rolled and steamed
as a walked. It look like something
useful still and I felt like I could be
doing something more useful
than I usually do here.
I would like to walk outside
and pour the rest of this water
into four cups, shaking
in the awkward grasp
of four gloved hands.
I would like to splash it
on the hinge of a frozen door
and hear it groan and give.
Instead I opened the white
metal door to the dock
of the warehouse and walked out
to the snowy edge and held
the steaming water out.
As it poured the eight feet
to the snow paved parking lot,
it gave up its heat in a puff
of steam that leaped out
of the thin rope of water,
and climbed up–the same way
we often imagine the soul
leaving a body as it falls,
suddenly killed, to the ground.