Two Tea Cups
Our tea cups are on the table.
His nearly empty,
mine still full.
He drinks and eats much faster than me.
Is this a poem?
Today, am I writing poetry?
I am allowed, you know, as a writer, to be a poet.
Perhaps I was a poet first.
•
A few years ago, I sat down with a psychic and he told me that in a past life I was a poet in Spain—or maybe it was Italy, or France. I’ve lived lives in many countries, my psychic said.
Any which way, I knew what he meant, and the feeling rang true,
as true as I sit here now, writing a messy poem while
he finishes his tea.
My cup, still untouched.