I like pouring your AB tea, lifting
the heavy Nungate pot, and tipping it up,
so the fragrant brown liquid streams in your china cup.
Or when you’re away, or at work,
I like to think of your cupped hands as you sip,
as you sip, of the faint half-smile of your feminine lips.
I like the questions – lemon? - sugar? – milk?
and the answers I don’t know by heart, yet,
for I see your tortured soul in your eyes, and I forget.
breakfast, Gunpowder, Assam, Earl Grey, Ceylon,
I love tea’s names. Which tea would you like? I say
but, like sex, it’s any tea for you, please, any time of day,
as the AB women harvest the Answerbank slopes
for the sweetest leaves, on Mount Who-See,
and I am your rampant lover, smitten, straining your tea.