We went to London once a year and,
aside from conjugate acts in wayward places,
there was one thing she loved doing
in that conurbation only, made personal
by her novel use of accoutrements
(strainer, drip tray, sugar tongs, cozy)
and especially how the milk was introduced—
smallest possible liquid dollop
that pricked the fuscous pond,
dove for a skipped heartbeat,
then resurfaced in one of three avatars:
gossamer of cracked glass or,
to her repulsed fascination,
simply itself, the unaltered bolus.
Questioning would be like asking Magritte
what’s with the derby, or how come the apple
and why green.
Actually, someone did ask him. He said
everything we see hides another thing
and we always want to see what’s hidden.