Your Stories Outlive Tortoises

There's a little floater in my glass,
Hugging close to the last withering cube
It rocks gently with the carbonated current.

The tranquility of its backstroke
Calls for closer inspection:
Bodiless, not a bug, hollowless, not a bubble.

So should I skim it out with the ladle
curve of my long fingernail, or is it
Content already, treading the surface of my soda?

Content so it seems, I push the glass
Across the table towards you, but you don't notice--
For you are still philosophizing.

So I've dubbed this lump in my beverage
An omen, proof that your anecdotes creepingly age,
Their lifespans longer than any tortoise,

With their nostril pause portholes
Dragging me on roads that end with no point.
You see, that's why I vacation during your stories,

Ceasing my attentiveness to instead befriend
Little floaters in my drink.