Time for Tea

Morning has slipped through the gap
beneath my door and rummaged
through my hair and fouled my breath,
telling me I must go now and sit erect
at the desk of responsibility.

From the kitchen I hear the Indian's war cry
slowly winding up from my tea kettle,
calling me to rise and plunge the leaves to steep.

The time has come again to swap my soul for
what will not change the world
but can pay the piper
for yet another dance.