It’s as simple as wanting chamomile under a midday sun:
sapping brash warmth off the ceramic
and the vapors of
steam quieting their fireworks.
A pre-warmed sweater eclipses the torso.
Trying to copy the whistle of
the first cardinals––can’t,
the lips are too dry, peeling;
they haven’t quite taken
to the moisture yet.
The white formica desk squeaking under the burdens
of of of of
half-assed attempts to rub out veteran scuffs
stretched out in a fine gradient.
The tea grows cold and bits of saturated leaves laze about
too drunk to foretell their approaching end in the sink.
This is all the world has to be.