I see through steaming windows rain-pocked cars, hear their wet wheels hiss
As I cradle this tea-warmed cup. More steam. Push back sleeves. Take pen; stir sugar onto page.
From unseen tables crickets’ chatter, cutlery clatter – I barely hear.
Swill hot weak tea, relish like sun-warmed, mud-sweet summer puddles.
Dead pigs fly from bacon-busy pans; damp wool halitosis pricks the scent of failure.
I wish this pen stirred magic spells, ladled fat scoops of juicy verse.