a spoon rhythmically tinks against a porcelain cup
the cup rotates in digital jerks in the saucer divot, like the clockwork gears of a spastic universe
only the sugar packets are silent
well, not silent, but you’d have to turn down the volume on the tinking cup
not to mention the crumbling buildings — which sound like wheelbarrow loads of bricks being dumped onto piles of bricks– clapping against, and sliding over, each other
if you could turn off all that, plus the thrum of your own neck pulse
then you’d hear the faint maracas, granules against the paper tube
By B Gourley in poem, Poetry on June 8, 2018.
