Yellow-tongued and reflected in windows.
Tapers of wax in a darkened kitchen.
We sit at the window, a rumble, a flash.
Silver-rimmed, a slash in the sky.
Rain in sheets, the din is steady.
I jolt in my seat and clasp my mug.
Camellia sinensis, where are your fronds?
Alas, no hot liquor brushes my lips.
Instead, I drink the tepid milk and go off to bed.
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