by Marissa Bell Toffoli.
Lonely, the creep of silence
downstairs and into the kitchen.
Time to start again.
I put water on for coffee,
lean my weight against grey granite. I wait.
Wind chimes jingle from my neighbor’s porch.
And there she is!
In her own window, at her sink.
She does not look up.
Across the row of trash cans in the drive,
above the planter box of not-yet-flowered greenery,
she holds a teacup under the faucet.
Scrubs bone with sponge, rinses,
places it on a rack to dry.
Takes up another.
Her worn white and blue striped robe,
her short silver hair. All at home,
yet we never see each other.
Kettle whistles.
I slosh water into the coffee filter.
Inhale steam. Listen to the carafe fill up.
Watch morning
sun waltz along window glass.
A momentary bridge between strangers.