The Three Fates

On Tedium

The same, every day. No visitors. No afternoon tea. The polished peacock-colored cups remain unused. This constant dusting, hoping one day . . .

But who are we, after all, to complain?

Hours—so many hours to walk the streets to spy inside windows. Noticing the slight hitch of a curtain. A baby’s wail. Is it time? Is it time?

Our arms are linked but we never touch.

We digress.

When we pass strangers, we want to take a pulse. But how quickly dim faces flee. And then we return to empty teacups. No stains rim the lips.