The kettle hissed a thin white stream

The kettle hissed, a thin, white stream.

I watched a chip, small, in the counter's face.

Formica, stained, a fading dream

of newness, in this quiet place.

The hum of the fridge, a steady drone.

Dust motes dancing, in the light.

And a thought, sudden, stark, alone:

I am here. Tonight. Here. Outright.

Not why, not how, no grand design.

Just this solid, breathing, present tense.

A dull, persistent, heavy sign.

And what to do with this immense,

Unasked for, complicated space?

My skin, my bones, the air I draw.

Just here. No other time or place.

And then, the water boiled, defying law.