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.

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