Perhaps the key to productivity
is hiding in the stain of yesteday
or the hour before's tea
I think as I add fresh leaves and pour boiling water.

Waiting, watching contents darken--
the cosmic reverse of big Bang contained
in my ceramic mug.

Three five seven minutes until
my instincts, honed for survival so,
tell me it is time: remove tea, add milk, stir
clockwise.

Reaching for the tea and sipping too soon
I burn my tongue, leaving a sandpaper circle of taste buds
who refuse to do their job--
a distraction from my inspirational clam
as I scratch along the ridges of my teeth
to sand them down.

Leading to my wonder
if I should save my tea and have my fortune read in its leaves
in a room thick with eastern chanting and incense
where I would find a woman
most likely wearing strands of scarves, skirt flowing,
metal-clang-bangle bracelets
and nails done, maroon or darker red and starting to show
the natural nail: yellowed
perhaps from smoking or age or smoking aged stale cigarettes.

I imagine she'll stare at the mess of wet leaves,
and tell me, as they do, that I'm stubborn--
resistant to change--clairvoyant and strong and prone
to feel maladies, as they may occur, in my throat.
For this I hand her fifteen dollars,
some of which I hope fixes her nails.

Returning to the hands cupped around the tea before me
in the suggestion of a prayer
the warmth hits my plams like the whisper of a poem I didn't write.