The city falls away, gray, as I rise,
my ladies cozy in the glass lift – to seven.

Ten to four. Spot on. No need to worry.
You’d think it were High Tea – be late; no break.

Between five and six, the blasted thing stops!
Me, stuck in a fog, with the Barrister’s waiting.

Before they moved in, taking up all of seven,
I stayed in the mezz., tipping my ladies to the cups.

The lift jolts, jostling the ladies, rattling their tops.
I move out; cups, cakes and savories in rows, like ducks.

“English Breakfast, Darjeeling, Earle Gray”, I say,
wishing the solicitors away, in court today.

A pinched-face woman, aghast at her clocks, rushes in.

I made inquiries today; for the lease of a storefront next door.

Lin Cava ©