struts over cobblestone
as my teapot screams
and shrieks on her first visit
since the rains of March.
The doorbell rings
and I hesitate to break
the silence.
I push my hand
between the blinds just enough
to peek an inch.
I am caught in a long pause
as I crack open the door;
she let's herself in.
The hairs on her head
catch me in the sunlight,
mousey strands of old age,
poorly disguised
by streaks of stringy blonde.
I want to say something,
but her mouth opens
and condescends again
over a cup of tea by asking.
Ready?
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