The Truth Teapot
Sitting regally upon a tulip shaped metal trivet,
handle at attention, cast iron belly carved into monkeys picking tea leaves
so as not to spoil the taste with oil that comes from human fingers.
The friendly click of the gas pilot politely invites the stove.
Old friend, sit a while, ponder as the water boils.
Open up and let go of the steam. Whistle or scream.
On the table, a pair of black ribbed iron cups wait patiently
on seats of coated maple leaves. Mouths gaping for hibiscus and truth.
No room for the clatter of a sugar spoon here.
Tea leaves crackle excitedly as they spill into their cage, eager to be tested.
Carefully cradle the ball of warmth, sip slowly.
Is that the aroma of betrayal wafting in?
The flavor refuses to be enhanced with cream.
Vela Patria 