Stranger

(poems go herIf you would please, sir, I'll take your coat, and perhaps your hat too, and hang them on the line to dry in my humid bathroom, above the bath tub. A kettle, I'll set it to boil on the stove, for a cup of lemongrass tea. And you can have two sugars, I wouldn't mind. I leave the tall windows open to the rain, the wide sills' paint peeling with each falling drop. Sit down, sit down, oh please, don't bother with your shoes, the floors can handle a little wet. It'll water them. The kettle whistles a shrill song from the kitchenette, and two tea bags are plopped inside, to steep for this guest, tattered man with thick-lensed glasses. He sits in a disheveled sweater, smiling, a little cock-eyed, against the green sofa, it hugs to him awkwardly, an old friend, familiar curves. I am standing with two cups and saucers, and he is standing to take his. Before his hands reach the delicate tea cup, they tremble, and the cup tumbles.