Sometimes, late at night, I make myself
a cup of tea, pale imitation
of the coffee I crave.
My husband makes the coffee at home,
the grounds just so, the water just so,
warmed milk waiting for the first cup.
I don’t make coffee on my own. I
defer, enjoy the busy-ness and bustle
as the morning brew is prepared without me.
Late at night, alone downstairs, I
make the tea, a simple process,
all my own, as I wonder
when I’ll be drinking
This poem was written in response to Miz Quickly’s 8/1 prompt “Teapot.”