On An Evening

When the sun screeches down
to land and we drink Pekoe,
do the tea leaves lie, do they
tell tiny tales, tattle on their
brothers outlandishly named
evidence, facts, truth — do
the tea leaves have a conscience,
an ethical backbone, or are they
the quick fix evening news,
the tales between houses, the
speculative crossword puzzle of
convoluted clues, an old woman
sitting on her porch, trying to
dress an unintelligible world
in antebellum rags — a few
vows, a few beaus, a few rivers
flowing past a young girl
sitting on the riverbank imagining
a world which never appeared.