Steam

Steam comes out
clean as a whistle
harmonizing with itself or
another whistle we can’t hear;
come out clean
as a knife’s shiny side
in a doctor’s office,
as a whisper
with no dirt on its lips.
I love a hiss of steam
like an announcement of my absence
from day to day life —
not attending anything
substantial, showing up randomly
now and then, taking care
to be noticed in passing only
as a noise heard barely, causing
a person to turn their head rapidly
and then miss the sound,
shake their head, decide against it
being real, forget it mostly
unless they hear it again — that’s
indeed me; misplaced me,
set here by me
deliberately, deliciously; imagine,
what it will be like; can’t take
your eyes away
to spite your ears.
I pass along my love
always for
a phantom hiss of steam,
a kiss of hot water
that might burn you, might not
depending on a whim
of a wind or on
what you might hear.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T