Hot, hot, hot steam releases
weeks of dot-the-i-and-cross-the-t
kinda days, soaring up to the ceiling
swirling soon down the drain.
Hot, hot, hot steam fills
me with yes-I-can and what-if-that
kinda thoughts, bubbling into consciousness
sudden and welcome. Some taste
like banana creme. Some slip away.
Hot, hot, hot steam hisses
on the surface of the water,
making me whole.
National Poetry Writing Month
30 poems in 30 days