POETRY

Just like you
I like my tea golden red
strong and served hot
in a clear and small cup.

So when I followed
the signs to the tea party
I was surprised at the
over the top syrup.

A wooden stick
demonstrated beyond doubt
that below the ice lies
the monster of our Id,

Intolerance, dressed
as a layer of sugar
at the bottom of
the bottomless cup.

This might be
the pre-war English tea,
the one from India
now packaged differently

in rage, in suffering
and in bankruptcy,
in simplicity but also
in ordained sacrifice

for a lost glory
(whose true meaning,
between you and me,
I felt but never understood).

 
Jam10