tea room (not) on fire 

i  have no intention of ever
having afternoon tea but i do 
watch videos of it. i see people
enjoying their biscuits & 
placing sugar cubes in hot amber liquid.
clothe napkins. a shiny butter knife. 
sometimes there is a fire outside
the window. the people pluck 
finger sandwiches from a tower.
lick their thumbs. flame-proof door knobs. 
a dog plays violin. there are no servers
in their mirage. just gloved hands 
that deliver every morsel. the burning
moon & the burning girls & 
the bombs with signatures from
happy stock image men. of course 
the tea room is not a real place.
instead, it is an idea that lives in
all of our teeth. everything is plentiful. 
we are the ones deserving of rest.
as if there is not a river. as if there are
not fields of blue ghosts. i drink tea 
from a dull mug. let the steam fog
my glasses. i used to swallow
so much more tea. chamomile & lemon
& bright hibiscus. i also used to
grow my own gloved hands in 
a little pot by the window. 
i know a video is also just a window
but they feel so far away. i know i am 
also sometimes a tea person. 
when i lived on the island though
i used to drive a few blocks so that
i could see the rich people. all their lives:
tea rooms. their cars like pocketbooks. 
my beater car, toothless. without windshield wipers.
waiting on the sidewalk to be turned
into sugar. swimming towards
the lip of their hungry water, then gone.