Strained


Tea leaves
She presses,
with the back of her
Silver plated spoon.
Could even be stainless
But I doubt it.
The reproduction retro cloth tells of nostalgia, for an uncomplicated truth,

The ones that can be stolen from overpriced vintage stores.

Fakes and faking it, the tea leaf wet patch.

Strainer tarnished.
Not coming clean,
And the mystery of the leaves,
Rustled and hustled and brittle.

Tell me
Why we all leave,
Only shapes and inferences.

Oh! Crumbs!

“Cake?” She enquires.

Baking it.
Looking for signs.
The clue.
Stirring the cauldron.
The brew.
Signs in the the tea cup
Residue.

“I care not for the filling.”

I say with my mouth full of lies.

Paper doilie patterns of the who we once knew and the where we once were.

(Not here).

Tannin trickles the spout.
Silently spreads in slomo
Over the faded and jaded
No, I never made it.

Only served,

The unpoured profanity,
that I wipe from my serviette lips.
I doubt very much if that will ever come out,
The strain of the stain of the tattle and tittle.

Tea stewed.
Leaves hanging
On that raised finger.

The stains
Remain

And we linger
Only
A little.

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