Every morning sees boiling water poured upon cool, arid crumbs of clay
And once the steam clears to reveal that day’s strength too much or few either way,
Marvels at how the pungent vapours are enough to send the creator shooting next door,
Where he disposes of the skipped breakfast, fast lunch and burnt supper of the day before.
Half asleep, he welcomes the icy seat
And sits until his thighs are numb-
Contemplates needless snippets of retreat
Until he returns to a mug as earthly cold as his feet
And flicks the kettle again with an unwashed thumb.