My Rumi, your Yeats. You back the threadbare furniture out the parlour
door. I don’t help. In the kitchen, water unboils; effervescent dust motes
float above the white stove. A tumbler of kumquat preserves coagulates
on the window sill. Noxious cleaners tumble from under the kitchen sink,
freed; the dust pan stands awkwardly against the wall. A quagmire of
plastic bags unbind themselves and launch onto the floor. A gradation of
stains on the white counter is unprinted by the sponge with bits of egg
clinging to it. Toast crumb and coffee grain confetti disperses behind the
appliances. Stray pennies left on the floor remind how we improvise. The
freak fortune of our meeting coalesces with the closing of the door.
Turning back, the hands on the dial stand up straight, embrace as if they
loved.
mail on the table
addressed to no one we know
cup we found outside
