Details at Teatime
The tea mug,
thrown, leaks rusty
copper and sage
green glaze.
All mapped up is
the rim; cracks twist
round the edge. The
fractured handle oozes
some birthday suit ceramic—
Chai trickles down
the body— a stream running
over a mossy mountainside.
Still the clingy leaves
linger, to chill on
steeped water—
Longing to
inhabit that crusty
mustache, sipping as it
dawdles over a stained,
tea dribbled newspaper.
The man sits at his
breakfast party, and
carefully entertains such a
busybody beverage.
