Alienation

There are no less than twenty boxes of tea

across your kitchen counter. Stacked in rows

uneasily, they differ; decompose.

Thus, orderly and neat begins to breathe

in the chaos of this tiny room

with, frankly, space enough for only one.

So I sit on a stool, start to assume

a demeanor of tiny-ness, undone

from the breadth that I previously knew. 

My perch is also small. In ancient age 

its brittle bones struggle: they moan and sway

with weight. And so the kettle boils for two

cups, just two. And here I am, a beat

to strive against, to sense, but never meet.