Poetry > TEA
Eric Francavilla
TEA
Brief.
Measured.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
And a shunting pop—
—slam of the microwave door.
A deep clink of earth ware,
Against the marble counter,
A hiss as the tea-bag sinks,
Then…
We wait,
Impatiently pat-pat-pacing,
Drumming fingers on the counter,
Counting 30, 29, 28—
—hearing everything.
Then suddenly,
Nothing but the faint dribble-drip,
—the soft, spongy tea-bag removed—
And a whimsical chime
—as skin gently rhymes off the bell like cup—
Echoing into silent,
Thoughtful,
Content,
Sips.