On the edge of the table she places her hands.
Nails barbaric, polish weary.
In her fingers a cigarette
smoked down, close to the filter
snuffed out in a glass.
“To what do I owe this visit,” she asks.
No voice answers.
And the wind blows the branches
of the Chinese elm against the southern facing window.
And the Burnese Mountain Dog barks
as the pot on the stove boils hard.
She gets up, turns off the flame
pours soup into two bowls and laughs.
“It comes down to the elemental things,” she says.
No complexity, no desire, just the sound of we two
first blowing to cool the soup
and then swallowing the first spoonfuls.