O Prosaic Life!
Put a teabag in a cup, waited for the water to boil.
Bulletproof cold fractured
thoughts, movements.
Time took for moving across the kitchen
a peek in the fridge, but
nothing new, but
dripping water from the melting ice. The power was off.
Octave-traipsing children’s wails from downstairs
(unclear whether pain or pleasure)
and concurrently
their zipline’s Doppler vrrrrr
and crescent steam noise from the now boiling water.
Something about this feels sadness,
something about this feels mortal town.
Now a toddler’s crow squawk. Now a crow. Now tea.
(Feb 2010)
