Coffee Pot

Layla Hendow

I have taken this October day
in carefully measured-out doses of coffee beans.
I have counted the minutes of it,
the round pockets of hours, and I have learnt
one small thing: that the watched pot

really does boil.
The steam rises up,
and the water does
a funny dance around the rim.
Eventually.
If you watch it enough.

I have found that
if you talk to it in a low, tame whisper,
bend down to its level,
with two hands resting on the tabletop
as though you are talking to a child,
it will start to stir. If you tell it
things you promise you won’t tell anyone

except the pot.
Some secret, heart, or hope.
The water will dance around the rim
and the steam will rise up
as if to let you know it was worth it.

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