when the kettle shrieks, for soothing green tea -
and the autumnal hum of the orange-yellow leaves of a sycamore
skedaddle in rust sparks across brown lawns with pink flamingos
lobbing their profiles through the Iris of blank stares...
like a field of poppies screaming anthems to ******
down a drain pipe...

when the kettle snipes at the supremacy of an eventual Silence -
that comes after the snow has hushed the rabies of our hustling tribes.
when it barks in the glint before attention span is wide enough to grasp it... when it's lodged in your throat
way back, behind the winds of your vexation... There !
breathing-in the Last Thing to ever make sense
and squandering the calm before a storm
for the lightning strike of a fresh ****
of an old
Lie.

be the very first to listen to your tea.