The clocks are ticking,
Kettle’s squealing.
                            Sit,
                                Sit,
                                   Sit!
Your tea is getting cold.
Shame, because that
            Bubbling
            Crackling
            Slowly slowing
            Water
Was boiled just for you.
Apparently,
The behind of your
(Altogether too baggy)
Jeans
Are
Nailed,
Glued,
Forced into the cracks of that
            Recliner.
Why else would I stand,
Hair humidity-provoked and frizzed,
Continuously reheating
Someone else’s drink?

Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
IEEEEE.

I,
Myself,
Could leave,
Walk away.
But my feet have followed the lead of your pants,
Have been poured into the very same spiteful mold
That roots them to the tile.
My toes,
Heels,
Flesh,
Have become one with the linoleum beneath them.

My hand inches closer.
Much to my disgust,
That untamable force within me
Pushes my fingers into the reheat button
Once again.