The Guest

The Guest

A steaming kettle
screams about the race
to answer the call
and seep a Tetley
fingered tightly by a tag.

The fire burns
behind glass doors
like roses in a vase
of a chilled window.

Water falls from kettle raised
to fill a golden flight
of butterflies on bone china
set with care before an empty chair
and ironed linen.

The guest arrives,
returning from caves,
grazed by a bullet, and
mended with wood pulp paste.

Leaves float zig zags
through the glass,
flakes of ash that fold
to gently blot the lips,
that puff beneath an inquisitive stare.

6/14/2010