Smoke Rising From the Teapot

And other homey moments

I’ll miss my home when I die, the sheets of paper stuck to the walls with my ideas, computers charged on power cords, palm trees swaying outside my window I’ll miss the brown sofa that I shared with my wife, watching baseball games and old black-and-white movies Clark Gable and Spencer Tracy They don’t make stars like that anymore

I must have cooked a hundred stir-fry on that large black wok, chopping onions and carrots, adding the baby bok choy There will be no more hand drums played in the living room, the beating of my conga, the tapping of my bongo No longer will smoke rise from the metal teapot, the blueberry hibiscus bag dropped into the cup, or holding my wife’s warm hand during tender moments.

© 2021 Mark Tulin

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