Tea for Two




The waiter seats me at a corner table,
which is perfect, because I want to be alone
with my thoughts and my tea. But there,
right across from me, just behind
the other chair, is a life-sized cutout
of Queen Elizabeth. She’s in full regalia,
with long gloves and crown, and she’s looking
right at me, or so it seems. Her expression
is an odd mix of restraint, tolerance,
and — perhaps — compassion. I want to look,
yet I want to turn away.

I drink my bold blend of Assam and Darjeeling,
and remember the newspaper clippings
of Elizabeth’s coronation — exotic souvenirs
crammed into our rural mailbox in the middle
of nowhere, sent by my mother’s family.  
I was too young to sense what those photos
and headlines meant to a war bride stranded
on a country road, five thousand miles
from tea houses, palaces, civilization.

I decide to lock eyes with the queen,
whose life is still honored in this little tea house
in my small city. I know nothing about horses,
I’ve never repaired my car’s engine,
I have no royal blood. Yet I know what it’s like
to endure a chaotic family,  to get older
and feel burdened  by what I’ve seen and heard,
and to sometimes need to get away from it all,
delight in the floral pattern on the delicate
cup and saucer, and let myself experience —
if only for a while — the healing balm
of a cup of perfectly steeped tea.

Diane Elayne Dees
 
If you have any thoughts about this poem,  Diane Elayne Dees would be pleased to hear them