Yesterday's Tea

cip of tea
Yesterday you sat still, waiting. Your tea
grew cold as you stared at an old
television re-run, before switching
channel after channel until you were
impressed enough to keep
watching. Meanwhile,
your tea had turned to ice. And, the evening
had left without a warning. Twilight
slunk in and curled its tail around
its head, and went off to sleep. You
remained fixed
to your couch, switching channels
again. Flicking faster than
all the opportunities you had
passed up, but could never
bring yourself to acknowledge
as such. Long past the last
soap got over. Your mouth mothy and
odoriferous. Your eyes red-rimmed, watching
the last hero (or was he really
the villain?) grin at you from across
the screen. His Cheshire mirth
a lurid arc
across your upside down
sky. You never had your tea.


If you have any thoughts on this poem,  Shikhandin would be pleased to hear them.