Every morning she brings me tea.
Before she brings it I’ve already had three sips
of my savory honey-and-applecidervinegar water,
an olde New England health potion, strongly recommended,
one teaspoon of each to a smallish glass of water,
awakening the belly, gently, to the new day.
It must work, for now I’m 86, well mobile and still not dead.
Before she brings it, my tea,
I’ve also fished out the day’s allotment of herbal dietary supplements
and washed them all down with the honey-vinegary water,
and taken, and recorded, my aging blood pressure.
After all that, like clockwork, it happens.
She has noticed,
quite without my noticing when she noticed,
that I’ve done all my preparatory things,
and so that’s when she appears
and sets down my tea
in just the right spot, steaming hot.
And then, gently, I approach it; cautiously I sip it…
Day has begun. All’s right with the world.
And soon, I know, any moment now, she’ll also bring my sourdough toast,
bread of life that, dipped in the best olive oil, so perfectly partners with First Tea.
Overwhelmingly good—soul completing—Barry’s rich black Irish tea,
by some miracle ordered and quickly shipped from far Eire-Land
across the wide ocean, bending to my darling’s will.
After all these years she still brings me tea.