I was rebelling from ‘Merica and following in
the footsteps of my British ancestors faithfully.
My mind was roiling like bubbles in the kettle
and yet there I sat, sipping Earl Grey tea.
I took it black: no milk, no sugar, no honey.
It was like coffee without the bitterness
and it matched my own atmosphere, with
just a hint of attitude and restlessness.
I swallowed slowly, liquid pooling on my tongue
and slipping around like the thoughts in my head.
The teapot understood and swirled the steam my way
like Mrs. Potts comforting me over Belle instead.
The cloud boiled in the sky, gunmetal grey to charcoal
and the teacup kissed my lip softly and lingered.
The winter wind rustled though the bushes
and the leaves, like my soul, grew withered.