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.