She holds the tea bag in her pudgy fingers like a rosary,
dip down deep into the confession of the cup,
release the bergamot mystery.

I met a tea-leaf reader in Dallas, years ago,
who read my destiny from the compost of a
coffee mug that said, "Ask me about Amway!"

The interior is quasi-Versailles,
an explosion of pink, puff pastry,
and trays of petit-fours, give me that Old European venue,
with the Negro in white gloves and a uniform
with epaulets, a la Admiral Halsey.

He pours the sacred Darjeeling, surrounded by high priestesses
in crisp, black taffeta. They are not allowed to look me in the eye.

The women around me have immaculate red fingernails.
The women around me sit on Queen Anne chairs.
The women around me have creamy latte complexions.
The women around me are not my mothers.