Watching the Poet Boil

the moments before, during, 
and full-bloom of it, but mostly

the water waiting, the pot waiting,
the orange glow of the burner waiting,

the cold kitchen tile waiting,
and me standing on the cold kitchen tile waiting 

for even the slight tingle of time
to take hold and begin the soft tap,

then moderate jiggling, then abusive
shaking of terrified molecules

that only happens when the watcher
isn’t watching, except when it’s me

who can’t stop staring back and forth
at clock and stuttering water that’s taken

what seems like a good ten minutes
to reach two-hundred seconds of enthusiastic activity,

bubbling up and over the constraints of time,
up and over the pan’s metal rim 

towards what could soon be
my blistered hands, my splattered face

just as I, bug-eyed and apologetic, 
clamber for the dial, quiet the commotion,

drop the lobster in,
that begins again the turmoil.