The ancient kettle whistles and groans.

The milk upon the counter has begun to sour.

The only clean spoon remaining is a tablespoon.

Tea, water and sugar granules collide in a scalding symphony into the floral mug I used to love.

He discharges too much milk; he's not looking at what he's doing.

I want to inform him of this grievous transgression - I must warn him that he has tarnished, marred his morning beverage - but I don't.

He leans transfixed against the wall where the ash paint peels & stares unblinking through the  window that dangles precariously on its last hinges.

An unbridled unleashing of hail assaults the stagnant, sighing house & the wilting, fading foliage.

He'll never live to be as old as this house.