By Kelly Aurora Beltane
The opposite of insipid liquid sipped with lustrous lip against
clickity-clack cup on plate, a pinky lift, fingers licked and thumbing
through bricks thick of papery page turns, stacks on stacks, no clocks
to tick away or take chunks of a day, the squeak of finger pads pulled
across porcelain, prying cookie into pieces to dunk, and crunch and
issolve in cheek. Still, time isn’t
still. It swirls under spoon, twirls and teems in steam
clouds and questions the left behind leaves.
