deepundergroundpoetry.com
The tea cup
It's been here since before I was born;
'The tea cup'.
Those words, once emblazoned
are now less than cast on the ply-board sign front.
Many times I’ve passed, in vehicles large and small,
four wheeled and two.
Or on the other side of the street.
And as I do now, waiting for the bus home.
Playing counting games with fallacy.
I look to see the same faces;
how strange.
How strange that I’ve never been to
'The tea cup',
and drank of it's contents.
Maybe its bleakness frightened me somewhat
standing corpse like in the busy street.
Mummified and preserved for future diners.
A treasure trove of travesty.
I see the sandwich board,
unmoved in millennia
it proclaims the menu unchanged by god or human hand,
'We sell tea'....
Unreadable ghosts of words
laid down before PG,
but one phrase unnerves more than others.
'We sell tea'
They sell Tea, in 'The tea cup'.
The opiate of the masses.
Many Limp bodies and bent necks
stare ceaselessly into the coffee grounds
and tea leaves.
As if transfixed by their misfortune.
How strange that,
'The tea cup'
bears a striking resemblance to its name,
exterior chipped and worn
interior brown and stained,
peopled by living tea leaves.
Whose fortunes I read accordingly.
From the safe distance of the bus stop,
then the bus
and finally home.
Just in time for a cut glass of Gin
Or three…
Not of tea.
It's not me.
Published 27th Aug 2013
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