It was begging for a flask of tea.

Some friendly grief to ease

competitive tears,

pomp and fallacy,

clip-clopped concrete.

Not another curtsey, criss-cross

2am Catholic duty.

 

It was dying for some hot and sweet;

warm to whet collective whistle,

char to shuffle,

not like cards,

the Queen of Hearts in Carroll’s hand.

No rabbit, black, plucked from hats

a bear might have liked to call her own

had she not been slit

from her anus to her lower lip

when she was barely grown.

 

It was asking for a mug, a fist, a scalding brew,

some emperor’s new clothes.

Grateful for the gristle,

golden shimmers blinked

on ever-moving retinae.

Performatively painful veiled

in lace of sweet surrender

of the commoner,

sans-wealth,

wondering

if Polly put the kettle on.