I thought I would make
tea for her but she was sleeping
I didn’t wake up
our back faced each other
once again cold birthday

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In Coming.

My druthers would be you
Coming through the door
Soaking wet
In that fabulous old trench
Brimming over with stories
For our tea.

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Tea Kettle

her tea kettle
no longer whistles..
she looks in the
and puts on lipstick…

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ode to morning..
the wind whistling
with the tea kettle…

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Quiet lights
are in windows at night,
lamps lit for intimate activities–
tea drinking, book reading–
a glowing comfort to me

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wrapped in our kitchen
dad and I sat
old blues, tea and a ciggie
it was before pc,
debating roots of soul,
dad faded out.

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