Morning

The kettle screams a thousand names,
All of them and yet none of them yours,
I pour the water onto the floor,
Hope its hotness will burn away the ground,
Scald away the plastic laminate,
And the mixed and mashed
Wooden waste beneath.

Then there would be a space, a gap
An unknown tunnel perhaps,
A journey, a place with no map
Jump in and let the still-damp darkness
Swallow you in it's throat,
Words stuck there warped,
A burnt beginning takes me,
And maybe at the other end,
I'll  turn up in your kitchen,
The crisp crumby smell of wholemeal bread,
Half full jars of honey, jam, anything,
Perhaps some bourgeois butter, overpriced muesli,
An array of nutri-grain.
Organic milk, the lot,
Anything, everything, because I don't know
Anything, about your beginning.
But maybe, a cup of tea,
Waiting for maybe me,
On the table.