It’s 5 p.m. again.
The kettle has settled at the boiling point of the tea within.
Her shiny stilettos make it at her regular table.
She sits with a pout as the tea pours out
from the spout, into her porcelain cup.
That, which then gets to kiss the satin red on her lips
which seemingly has been dabbed on
for hours together by her on them.
She sips on the tea, her thirst dripping of etiquette
that makes every move of hers desirable.
He watches and ogles, each day when she’s there…
At 5.15 p.m. she tramples his heart away
with the tick-tock of her stilettos
leaving the table tea-less and him, unnoticed.