A shrill whistle startles me back to the
big-handled kettle. My tea, which had
been the color of warm toast and now
a potent licorice.

Giving up on perfection, I pour.

Uncorking the Waterford decanter,
I try to salvage my bitter cup, only to wince
as I swallow; a witch's brew, cursed with-
out company.

I empty the server while staring
at the black hands and numbers on the clock
until my eyes blur and my head aches. I crunch
a sugar cube.

A folded napkin smiles at its reflection in
a sugar spoon; tea time is over. Unfastening
the pearl clip, I let my hair tumble
to my shoulders.

Collecting the silver tray, I stride
past the hour-keeper whose mockery
follows me into the kitchen with sonorous
tones in time.

I brew myself a cup of coffee, unsure if I want
to be anymore sober than I am.

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