The Tea House Inside Me

 

 

I am built for breathing,

My body a shell

I put on for living

Underbelly contracts and expands

 

People look into the teahouse

And whisper at its doors.

Yes, sister,

I am hoping

To find a home soon.

 

I imagine the bare feet

Who were on the cool wood floor

Before me.

 

There’s something about

Our cells processing time,

The way they’re living and dying

And all through it we’re still around.

 

The round table

In the center of the teahouse

Has held the cups of 4 generations, gently,

The traces of abuse are softer now,

nicks and cuts smoothed over

by the hearts of palms

of many hands resting.

 

This is a museum,

And I’ve arrived just in time

To shrug off my stained coat,

Knit hat, and sopping boots,

to sit on the floor for tea.

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