Inventory of a Borrowed Kitchen

The kettle hums in a key the previous tenant tuned — some grief I never learned the words for, steaming.

A chipped blue bowl holds lemons gone soft at the navel. Light arrives through the window the way a guest does: unsure where to put its coat.

I open the drawer and find a recipe card in handwriting like wet thread, asking for one cup of patience, two pinches of what you have left.

Outside, a dog argues with a sprinkler. The clock forgets a second, then remembers. I stir the kettle's question into a cup I won't drink from until it cools enough to keep.