Final Cuppa Poem by Fred Rik Kesner

'final cuppa'


day thins on toothy edges,
each request arrives, softens contours.
Still, hands move in steady patterns,
carries out what the moment asks
while the inner field settles
into shadowed grain.

a cup waits on the bench,
its position unchanged,
reflects a small shard of light
as the room adjusts around its rim.
my shoulders follow that adjustment,
works through each hour
with the same steady mutedness.

corridor air congregates
in slow-stepping gait,
walls lean into familiar stillness.
a hooked cloth stays where it was,
marking a point to return to
as the day moves in lowered light,
each motion traces toothed textures
of what can be borne.






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