In this world a tablecloth need not be laid
On any table, but is spread out anywhere
Upon the always equidistant and
Invisible legs of gravity's wild air
The tea, which never would grow cold,
Gathers itself into a wet and steaming ball,
And hurls its liquid molecules at anybody's head,
Or dances, eternal bilboquet,
In annd out of the suspended cups up-
Ended in the weightless hands
Of chronically nervous jerks
Who yet would never spill a drop,
Their mouths agape for passing cakes.
Lumps of sparking sugar
Sling themselves out of their crytal bowl
With a disordered fountain's
Ornamental stops and starts.
The milk describes a permanent parabola
Girdled with satellites of spinning tarts.
The future lives with graciousness.
The hostess finds her problems eased,
For thereis honey still for tea
And butter keps the ceiling greased.
She will provide, of course,
No cake-forks, spoons or knives.
They are so sharp, so dangerously gadabout,
It is regarded as a social misdemeanor
To put them out.
VINTAGE SOVIET RUSSIAN TEA CUPS.
For Bonnie, good moggie
faithful friend and companion
R.I.P
