It’s as simple as wanting chamomile under a midday sun:

calloused hands

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.