Soup

On the edge of the table she places her hands
Nails barbaric, polish weary

In her fingers, a cigarette
smoked down, close to the filter
and then snuffed out in a glass.

“To what do I owe this visit,” she asks.

No voice answers.

And the wind blows the branches
of the Chinese elm against the southern facing window.

And the Bernese Mountain Dog barks
as the pot on the stove boils hard.

She gets up, turns off the flame
pours soup into two bowls and laughs.

“It comes down to the elemental things,” she says.
“No complexity, no desire, just the sound of we two,
first blowing to cool the soup and then swallowing the first spoonfuls.”