The kettle whistles plaintively as if it knows it’s time for tea
but the time is only five past three,
far too early
and she’s the one who put the kettle on
but
she, went back to sleep
leaving me to keep my ears awake until I rise,get up and make a
brew.

I don’t know what to do,
should I make the tea?
would she thank me If I woke her with some toast and tea upon a silver coaster?
I think not.
She’s got me wrapped around her little finger,slinging me a crumb or two and leaving me to make the brew.
Sod the kettle
let it whistle on,
she chose the tune,she knows the song,meanwhile
this hungry boy is gone
to get some coffee and a scone, in a diner down the street.

Let her wake and wonder why
the kettle’s dry,there is no tea
let her wonder
what became of me
but
she,
will take it in her stride
she’s got her pride and that won’t slip.
I think this as I sip my drink and wonder if she’d ever think
just how much’brew a man can take
how many tea’s a man can make
before he cracks.

I keep my back against the wall
lest she should fall from a great height and beat me senseless,
it would serve me right
but this I do not let her know
I go
to work
whistling.
copyright © John Smallshaw all rights reserved

Advertisements