Each night, he would boil kettlefuls
of water - gallons, dozens of the things,
sat on gas rings or plugged in, guggling.
He doesn't expect you to understand.
That's why he lived alone - to get far enough
from the sad gravity of having to explain
your proclivities to people who really
would prefer him to stop, even though
this little ritual makes him happy.
Each night, he'd do it, and listen
to them singing. One man, alone,
his kitchen full of steam.