the kettle sings loudly 

and clicks off

water ready to make a brew

delivered thoughtfully and sincerely

into the lounge

to the table in front of the TV

with a smile

 

and then

back to the kitchen

explosive tears

jetting into clenched hands

face jammed against the cold sink

gut screaming –

What songs there were to sing!

Plays to act!

Students to teach!

Words to write!

 

breast muffled

someone might hear this anguish

such gulping crashing agony

as the telly drones a room away

and spoon tinkles into cup

 

‘I have done nothing.

I do nothing.

I AM NOTHING!’

 

no wisdom of reason

is adequate

to assuage such grief

as the telly drones a room away

and cup clicks back on saucer

 

 

 

 

 

 

Cynthia Buell Thomas