Submitted by Willie Smith
The clock ticks, second second after first passing.
The refrigerator thrums, slaving to maintain
mechanical cool. Something inside the ear whistles –
a kettle life itself could not take off the stove.
The birds have groggily begun to chirp.
Mercury, the ephemeris maintains, rises
behind the cloudcover beyond the window,
the sun one hour behind. On the chair I sit,
alert, between coffee sips, to whatever quiet
might lurk. In struts the cat, looking up
(as if I were in his Webster’s a word),
demanding service. His whiskers tune my crystal
to static, as I rise to set about filling the dish.
Kibble tinkles onto porcelain.
Worlds of words await song.