Smoke Rising From the Teapot
And other homey moments
I’ll miss my home
when I die,
the sheets of paper stuck to the walls
with my ideas,
computers charged on power cords,
palm trees swaying
outside my window
I’ll miss the brown sofa
that I shared with my wife,
watching baseball games
and old black-and-white movies
Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy
They don’t make stars like that
anymore
I must have cooked a hundred stir-fry
on that large black wok,
chopping onions and carrots,
adding the baby bok choy
There will be no more hand drums
played in the living room,
the beating of my conga,
the tapping of my bongo
No longer will smoke rise
from the metal teapot,
the blueberry hibiscus bag
dropped into the cup,
or holding my wife’s warm hand
during tender moments.
© 2021 Mark Tulin
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