The bike shop owner’s wife’s bike
was the palest blue, a blue that
infringed upon white, that walked
the finest line beside it, and she
straddled this at the crosswalk,
talking into the wind at me,
with a flap of her silk scarf blowing
up into her face.
Teapot’s metal lid vibrates slightly
as I move across the room with it.
Like an earthquake scene from some film
where the camera moves in close
to take a good look at something.
Something that is beginning to vibrate.
I am examining a small crumb on the table.
A crumb so small I would never have noticed it
had not this fly come along to walk all around it,
to regurgitate on and before it,
to compulsively wash his hands busily beside it.
When abruptly teapot’s lid is popped
there comes an unsheathing sound
like that of a sword pulled from its scabbard.
When teapot’s lid is popped back down
teapot coughs a single steam ring
from its spout that lifts
beautifully, widening as it rises.
The bike shop owner’s wife talked
into the wind (I watched her feed
some day-old oolong to the shop plants once—
it somehow seemed obscene to me)
with a flap of her silk scarf snapping
her mouth as she spoke.