Without ado, without contrived occasion,
I line up the cup handles on the table.
And the body listens for the stairs again,
But the wind beats a branch against the glass.
Hiding my shoulders in rumpled fabric,
I count the dark stripes on the wall.
I always leave one side of the bed free,
A space that does not belong to me.
As if you’d only stepped out for a minute -
So I do not lay the book on the edge.
A muffled madness rooted in routine,
Every time, brewing tea for two.