in the gaps between the goo
you scoop up out of the pan
and whilst the suds in the sink
circle once… twice…
(those soapy suds
nothing can rush them)
and even yes even in that split
second when you leap up/swear/
knock over your chair/exhale
all at once because the battery
in the powerpack you’re charging
on the countertop has just erupted
into flame, even there, right at the
dead centre heart of that lithium-
fuelled-multi-hyphenated-indoor-
Catherine-Wheel-Scenario
swirls poetry
—a little puff of it
(delighted
just for
once to hold
a non
-speaking
role.)
