by Tim Chiu
Boiling water in my kitchen as I watch TV in another room - a poem.
|Sedately aware of my surroundings
In my homely kitchen of speckled white Formica,
Black and beige appliances, and white wooden cabinets,
I fetch an ebony-handled, metallic tea kettle
From the otherwise empty stove top
To boil a few ounces of cold water
From the responsive, unfiltered tap.
I push and turn the plastic dial
To fire up the resting stove
And place the partially filled kettle
Onto the center of the dark heating element.
A few energetic, gushing sounds
Signal the beginning of the boiling water,
As the primarily static molecules
Attempt to launch into their frenetic dance.
A television in another room provides
A timely diversion from this brief,
Yet mind-numbing task of making
Steaming, boiling liquid emerge
From my medium, light-weight kettle.
Eventually, the shrieking, high-pitched
Whistle sounds, alerting me
That the water has reached its noisy,
Back-breaking boiling point;
The piping hot liquid may now be applied
Rather auspiciously to about a dozen or so
Invigorating beverages and soups
As planned just moments before…