Can't get myself to write about
what my sister might have said ten years ago
or how often Dad took us out for pizza
only about the teapot on the stove
and its soft whistle of "hellow,
yes, I am boiling now, um if you
wouldn't mind, just pop my bum off
the top-o-this flame here" and how I do
turn it off absentmindedly while deciding
which kind,
too late
and I rush to fill the cup
and watch it change color in the leaking
pluming intercourse
of hot water and herb.
I drink it and feel devine.