When you eat sponge cake at ten minutes to midnight,
and rain clatters on the roof above your dinner table,
and the French mustard pot seems wrapt in conversation with black peppercorns and pink salt,
you might as well drink the mug of tea while it’s hot enough to warm your tummy.
Otherwise those pens on the counter, alongside the scribbled page of names you meant to invite to Clubhouse, might accuse you of neglect.
I ran out of drinking water.
Thirst, dry mouth, swallowing hard against the draining of the light,
that used to support my fetish for
mammy’s food before bed.
There’s a learning opportunity in a haystack, even when you can’t find a pitchfork
and your calling is to notice things out of place.