(poems go herIf you would please,
sir,
I'll take your
coat,
and perhaps your hat too,
and hang them on the line
to dry
in my humid bathroom,
above the bath tub.

A kettle,
I'll set it to boil
on the stove,
for a cup of
lemongrass tea.
And you can have two sugars,
I wouldn't mind.

I leave the tall windows
open to the rain,
the wide sills' paint peeling
with each falling drop.

Sit down,
sit down,
oh please,
don't bother with your shoes,
the floors can handle
a little wet.
It'll water them.

The kettle whistles a
shrill song from the kitchenette,
and two tea bags are plopped
inside, to steep
for this guest,
tattered man
with thick-lensed glasses.

He sits in a disheveled sweater,
smiling, a little cock-eyed,
against the green sofa,
it hugs to him awkwardly,
an old friend,
familiar curves.

I am standing with
two cups and saucers,
and he is standing to take his.
Before his hands reach the delicate
tea cup,
they tremble,
and the cup

tumbles.