Tea Party, a poem by Abhinav Aradhi

 

Tea Party

Your name, dearie?

The crux of you?

The thread of persona,

Twanging a hollow tune.

 

A cup of tea, dearie?

Idle gossip about the stars,

And the way their solar power,

Overwhelms our little selves.

 

Scones, dearie?

Crumbs of our twisted past,

Swept up by the carpet’s current.

There, consumed by futuristic felines.

 

Your title, dearie?

Did the hitch stay tethered,

Or was the dowry too weak?

Was it you?

 

The little ones, dearie?

Do they galavant in the dreamy world,

Or do they exist only in conservative thoughts?

Or are they entrenched in an underground nursery?

 

Your mother, dearie?

Is it her pair of tired shoes,

You have stuck firmly upon your worn feet?

Or have you bought a new pair?

 

Your father, dearie?

Did you find shelter from the storm,

Or did a flying fist subdue you?

Have the bruises dissolved?

 

You, dearie?

Trying still,

Or has Fatigue become your roommate?

Has Lethargy undressed you?

 

Dearie, don’t you understand?

Arsenic’s got neither taste nor smell.