The Problem with Tea

is there is no substance to it, so I add milk
to my rooibos.
As I stir, the fog
swirls with the brick colored liquid. All

while I listen to Dan Carlin’s Hardcore History.
And I wonder about the farmer, torn in half
by machine gun fire at the Somme. I wonder
if he watched the yellow fog
of chlorine roll over the battlefield,
paving men into the earth.
Fitzgerald would call this the last love battle.

Suddenly you’re there
sitting across the table with your
earl-gray and blackberry scone.
You return my gaze,
you ask me what I’m thinking.