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.
Charissa's Grace Notes 
Despite the sad layers beneath, I absolutely fell in love with the lilt and rhythm of this poem. I could hear your words – the rattling, buzzing – it matches the constant sound in my brain. No spot at the table? Make your own glorious settings with fine china and tea – it be more beautiful than any other you’d attend…
That is what I do…there are no other options, so what else is there?
The choice to live differently can be unpopular and misunderstood…no, that is not quite right…that infers even an overlap of cognition in common…it is simply solitary and utterly unique.
I just left you an e-mail. Xoxoxoxo