Liming One
November 1, 2011
As she removes the lid
from a biscuit tin,
the man from Manchester
is standing by the sink.
As she steeps tea
and she stirs sugar,
he hangs about the hallway
and flickers in the bathroom.
As she places two cups
and settles back,
like someone returning
from a busy bar,
somewhere in the hallway
a veranda unfolds.
She stirs with a spoon
the view of an ocean.
Talking like breathing
we’re sitting with tea cups,
we’re speaking darjeeling,
earl grey and assam.
I describe the walk
and the stopping for milk,
she conjures umbrellas,
hangs some silk.
And the Rasta from the hills
lights up a spliff.
The man from Edinburgh
wants to move in
The guy from Bar Roma,
now says, he has a wife
The teacher from Cambridge
remains oddly quiet.
We wind our talk
across a distant beach,
double back,
read leaves.
We drink tea
cup after cup.
No more dark bars.
No more dark rum.
We kick off our shoes
and dance on a rug,
and the Rasta by the kettle,
the teacher by the jug.
Polly put the kettle on,
put the kettle on.
We drink tea
and the moon folds up.
We lime in her kitchen.
Calypso, with mugs.
