He draws in the bottom of his tea cup
(not in a Nina Simone ‘put a little sugar in my bowl’ kind of way).
He can’t seem to find Tupelo honey here now,
perhaps those bees are sleeping, but still.
But still, Texas wildflower honey is most acceptable
with the collection of night herbs that he mixes up
and jostles into a Number Four tea sack each evening
as soon as there’s nothing but dark outside to see.
He likes his cups to be white inside,
probably a familial habit, hard to say at this point.
He inverts the honey delivery system (a plastic nozzle)
and begins to lattice back and forth and round and around.
In this moment there could be a spaniel
dead on the kitchen floor beside him, at his feet,
with a few (more than one or two) still-alive babies
in the fat girl’s stomach which rumbles a little up and down
like donut moles beneath a loose carpet,
but he wouldn’t notice.
Would before and after,
but not during this precise fifteen seconds
of caramel-colored pouring,
which in itself is an acknowledgement of night
and the beginning of this particular
and good-for-one-time-only end.
He finds it very much necessary to sometimes
have ceremonies of only one.
Unannounced and unnoted.
While the dishwasher pursues its own level
and a child beyond the window plays with an over-sized ball
(which is a projection on his part as he cannot see the object in question,
which in truth could also be something else being hit or beaten,
but not a can of cooked ham or a sack of wheat as these sounds,
even with electronic adjustment, would be incorrect).
All is thread. Narrative. Linkage. Sense.
Tonight it is the teapot beside the coffee pot.
One in use, the other prepared.
Honey at night. Syrup for the morning.
Without one no certainty of another.
He stops this busy connecting.
The house is quiet. No child.
No over-sized ball.
No animal no longer alive giving birth
to the last of herself.
He doesn’t know what to do exactly.
In his head he is going mad,
but it is a very quiet kind of madness