Original EveryPoem Studio house-voice poem.
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We invite the small black cylinder onto the kitchen shelf. It tells the weather,
I have waited a century for your message to turn blue. Civilizations rose in the kitchen.
Your name remains in the group chat, a small green circle beside the last thing you said:
Two doctors lean toward one screen, one where the snow has closed the road, one three countries east.
At first she shows us only ceiling, then one eyebrow, then the lamp. We say tilt it down.
On the late bus home I open a book no shelf could hold. A dictionary waits beneath my thumb.
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