Pour

The teapot is timeless
cream,
$56
extortionate
neutral
compatible with anything
anywhere,
anywhen.

Comfortable in the uncertainty of an empty shelf
of unmet companions
and unborn conversations.

This first earthenware brick
of the future I hope to build,
with the man I love
in this over-brewed city;
the overwhelmingly
too bitter,
too sharp,
too much.

Unboiling under unwavering eyes,
steeping
the anticipation

of Irish Breakfast
Sunday mornings
and Thursday evenings
of
warmth
relaxation
and the New York Times.

the Lady Greys
of
elegant
social
occasions.

The Russian Caravans
of
good friends
gathering.

Anticipating
the day
when I have enough company
to put away my single tea-bags
in single cups
for good.

Its generous curves
pregnant with possibility,
filling, drip by drip
with futures
as solid as vapor
and tea-leaf prophecies.

A cresting wave
frozen,
a surge impending
through my life
clearing my debts,
cleaning the subways,
renewing the streets.

But for now,
It sits,
silent,
lonely
and waiting.