Saturday Morning

I sat in your living room

Listening to the buses and cars

Drive by, nine floors down,

The sound filtered by the sheer curtain

In front of the open window.

My tea tastes strange,

I haven’t taken the teabag out yet,

And the taste of metal has stepped from the spoon,

With the tea leaves, into the hot water.

And you keep talking

I came to listen to you talk.

Lean forward in your chair

Hold the paper still on the table,

Now fling it around in your hands.

I’ll stretch and suppress another yawn

As I try to follow and understand.