Mucilage

Dew loosens itself from the frayed tarpaulin,
falling in deliberate beads
onto trembling sweat gathered on her forehead.
Chipped pink‑polished nails
molest the keyboard
sinking the keys into pathos of daylight.
The battered kitchen slab
is warmed by her wrists,
tea rings stamped all over
are imprints of routine.

A tomato runs off into the greasy basin
moving the way a heart
desperate to be rinsed.
She catches it with a sickle of instinct.
Tiny okras rest in a plastic sieve,
oozing mucilage
stretching the storm of seconds in her eyes
to sort demons
the way cobwebs sift light
in back alleys.

A knock trembles through the sheet of wood
her skin startles
and her corridored mind runs for a tattered cloth
to drape the glowing blackhole.

Her neighbour asks her
for a fist of tea powder
She tilts the tin,
but mucilage has clumped the grains
into damp little knots
that refuse to fall.