impasse
We stood there in
the kitchen, she and I.
I’d had the thought
for days: ask her today.
Ashamed to ask, I
waited for the stray
unguarded moment,
though, to make my try.
But seeing her now
busy at her tasks
and realising that
I had the chance
she’d answer
without thinking in advance,
What would you
have me write about? I asked.
Just then the
whistling kettle starts to blow,
concealing her in
rushing steam that soars
through slanting
window up to purple rain.
And she replies,
while drop by drop she pours
the boiling water
on the coffee grains
and the aroma
spreads out: I don’t know.
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