To Her Serene Coffee Mug

She says, “Poetry is not my thing.”

I say, “Offer me your tea.”

And I continue blabbering,

it was like a graveyard, you know,

like I’m down to tons of earth.

Meanwhile, she rolls her own cigarette,

prepares her own breakfast,

welcomes the morning bird,

farewells to the nightmares.

Her laugh sounds like a mermaid’s splash.

She walks like a blind storm,

Her beauty bones are for men to go to pilgrimage.

Yet she wants to have a silky lemon loaf!