these days i fill my lungs with smoke
to insulate my brain
and consider the londoners
who i haven't seen in far too long.
michael with his spitting essex accent
and juliet who michael says 'sounz welfee'
telling me to put a kettle on and then
complaining when
i leave the tea bag in the mug.
"i like it strong to the last drop" i insist
and they call me a 'daft ****'
and michael says that if all yanks made tea
like i do
then it's no wonder we were willing
to throw it in the harbor.
we all take our tea in different shades.
and they can tell just glancing at the cup
that i've over-poured the milk.
they seem to always consider hue
those londoners
who know their nuances.
                                               afterall
they were raised beneath shades of grey.

perhaps i see more delicately,
too.