You can forget to put
water in the pot.
You can forget to turn on the gas.
You can forget you put water on to boil.
This is the worst to forget,
you usually lose a teapot.
You can forget to put a teabag in the cup.
You can forget to pour water.
You can forget the cup you've made,
find it cold on the stove an hour later.
You can put in milk and carry it out to the couch
under the lamp
and still never drink it.
It could be a book of poems, long political harangue,
or your daughter, a descent into the dream, a song on the radio,
mail arriving, sudden recollection of wet laundry needing dried,
the phone. An epiphany. Neighbors arguing in Turkish.
Eucalyptus in bloom. A lengthening of the wave.
