The Tea Cosy & The Poet

A teapot, cup, saucer, and a tea cosy;
a proper brew alone, with my thoughts,
pen, paper, the noise from construction.

The warmth of the cup in my hands,
then the utter contempt from the cat;
I am so blessed to be alive today.

I consider writing a poem about an
egg beater having a philosophical
conversation with a Tupperware bowl.

Having written about flying moustaches,
and the contents of the kitchen cupboards,
I wonder if I should do it all again.

Something moves, as I look up wondering;
the cat is sprawled legs to the sky,
there’s no one about and no movement.

Suddenly, the tea cosy begins to move;
the cat does not stir, and there are no signs
my cup will collide with the saucer, table.

Calm as a Wombat, I sit staring at Mum’s
tea cosy as it moves off the teapot, into
the air then begins to dance mockingly.

Full of feelings, the fly swat is handy,
so I take it and swat the tea cosy about;
there’s no end in sight. It won’t stop.

Crushing my feelings, I sit down, pour
another cup of tea, pick up my pen
and begin to write about the tea cosy.

I look up. The tea cosy hugs
the teapot lovingly, and I have inspiration;
I must find more of those tea leaves.

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