The Devil's Cup
What the serving boy poured steaming
from his pot, was like some distillation
of night, dark and thick as tar, well named
the devil's cup. Still, a penny bought
as much as you could swallow and access
to discourse ranging in scope from news
of traders ran aground to the French pox.
Two dishes enough to know I would never warm
to this Turkish brew, bitter as a salad's radish.
My preference for the China drink, both black and green,
its sought after leaves to be boxed and locked.
A gentler refreshment than these milled seeds that agitate
the mind and heart, bring a restlessness
that would keep Endymion from his sleep.
If you have any thoughts about this poem, Stephen Bone would be
pleased to hear them