Or, I Loved You.

The clouds did not look in any way oppressed that morning
when a table held teacups and saucers all scattered about,
Staining light brown on the fine bone china.
Scraping cutlery, cutting deep.
Leaves of a crisping newspaper thumbed through.
Polite guffaws and 'gentle' conversation.
A man lay out a map
at the table and smoothed it down.

Slurp, clink, ah.

Whips lash, sweat breaks.
     Backs break.
Skin glistens, brown grunts muffle into screams across millions of miles.
Lakhs of kilometres?
It's the weather that's oppressive, I'm sure.
     while: "Spices and gold b y  t h e  f i s t f u l,
                  get your bags of gold and spices here!"

Tea, poured into saucers from cups.
Thickly accented words, in a foreign dialect,
sitting oddly on strange, dark tongues.
Men that, years later, were imprisoned for keeping silent
Hanged those that did not.
What are we aping?, echoing in the streets.

Shattered cups and splintered saucers,
strewn neglected on the ground.
A heel crushes out a stub of ashy clove
and the bitter smell of stale coffee
lingers overheard.