The coffee is hot for a third time
And maybe I’ll get in a sip
She said poetry is for mothers
Because it can be done in the spaces between
After one pees on the carpet
Before the other grabs a hammer
After quelling the high pitches
Before picking up the same mess
Poetry is grout around tiles of time
The naming in moments of quiet
(And quiet is counted in moments)
So I’ll have to reheat
Because this was my sip

{“she” is the gorgeous Elizabeth Alexander with whom I may begin a love affair in words – her inspiring interview here}