The Ten Minute Truce

The steam hits the bottom of the chipped mug,

a brief white cloud before the dark pours in.

I’m staring at the stack of bills on the table

where a brown ring has already claimed the rent.

This is the only time the house stays still,

before the phone starts its frantic, metal itch.

I hold the ceramic between my palms

and breathe in the scorched smell of the bean.

It’s not about the wake-up or the heat,

but the way the world has to wait by the door

while I take these ten minutes to belong to myself

before the bitter part of the day begins.