Pour

The teapot is timeless

cream,

$56

extortionate

neutral

compatible with anything

anywhere,

anywhen.

Comfortable in the uncertainty of an empty shelf

of unmet companions

and unborn conversations.

This first earthenware brick

of the future I hope to build,

with the man I love

in this over-brewed city;

the overwhelmingly

too bitter,

too sharp,

too much.

Unboiling under unwavering eyes,

steeping

the anticipation

of Irish Breakfast

Sunday mornings

and Thursday evenings

of

warmth

relaxation

and the New York Times.

the Lady Greys

of

elegant

social

occasions.

The Russian Caravans

of

good friends

gathering.

Anticipating

the day

when I have enough company

to put away my single tea-bags

in single cups

for good.

Its generous curves

pregnant with possibility,

filling, drip by drip

with futures

as solid as vapor

and tea-leaf prophecies.

A cresting wave

frozen,

a surge impending

through my life

clearing my debts,

cleaning the subways,

renewing the streets.

But for now,

It sits,

silent,

lonely

and waiting.