A little bit of poetry

Ode to Tea drinkers

Sometimes I wonder if you can tell
a person by the tea they drink;

the pomegranate green tea would say,
with its big flavour,
this town is too small
close your eyes
and see the city.

Orange pekoe is for those
who drink tea from bulk boxes,
almost an afterthought,
while Earl Grey says traditional
the striped bowtie of tea,
the old standby, with a hint of desire
to dress up. It wishes
secretly to become a London Fog,
sipped in cafés, earn a spot of its own
on the menu.

Deep Rooibos sucks in the drinker,
fooled by a name inflated and round,
it won’t release you until every syllable
of its flavour is drawn in like pipe smoke,
resonating on the tongue like the beat
of a drum held warm in the hand.

Meanwhile, even-tempered Chamomile whispers
to its drinker, the romance novel reader
on the couch, or the man on the front porch watching
the dandelions march over the yard.

Sometimes I wonder if you can tell a person
by their tea, unseam the bags that hold
their weight, cup life
in a metal spoon.