the rattle of teacups
against those saucers
laced in time and air
with the lazy lovely
scents of scones
and cardamon
and swaths
of slathered
butter.

and then windows rattle
in their frames, pulsing
and buzzing in steps
as Important Things
stomp to the door
and lean hard on
that bell dongly dinging
incessant insistent

and the back door
opens, swallows me
and I am kicked
to the curb
casually,
casualty

of the business of busyness
and life that excludes
a spot at the table
once set for tea
and me

and now moved on
to dinner and diversion.