Borrowing Hope

Start with a cup you don’t love anymore

the chipped one, the mug that tastes faintly of pennies.

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Rinse it. Not perfectly. Let a little cloud stay.

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Open the window two inches, even if the street

It's doing its loud, greasy thing.

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Put one small object on the table: a button,

a smooth stone, that ticket stub you keep forgetting.

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Breathe like you’re cooling soup, slow, then slower

until your shoulders stop arguing.

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Name what you want: hope. Say it quietly,

like you’re not sure you deserve the syllable.

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Boil water. Watch the first impatient bubbles.

They rise, they break; they don’t apologize.

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While you wait, text one person a plain truth:

“Today is weird. I’m here.” (Don’t add a joke. Or do.)

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Pour the water. Listen. The kettle is hissing is a hymn

that forgot half its words.

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If dread shows up—smooth suit, fake smile

Offer it a chair, but not your lap.

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Take one bite of something bright: orange, mint,

a tomato still warm from somebody’s hand.

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Go outside for exactly three minutes.

Notice a leaf doing its best impression of gold.

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When the small lift arrives, don’t grab it hard.

Hold it like a moth: gentle, almost nothing.

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And if it doesn’t arrive, well

Leave the window cracked anyway. Something might.