Thursday is a good day for a poem. And this is a good one. I suspect Tom Paine would like it, too. And Freud. And Jesus. And John Dewey. Tea and conversation makes the world go round. (My glass of red wine makes it spin a little faster. But not too fast to appreciate the emotion here.) Thanks, U. Lawrence Helm wrote:
Tea He set it up but then The others moved in, Stronger, more ruthless, Picking and choosing Amongst his ideals As though they were Oranges in a bin – Finally dumping them Entirely when pretense Was no longer required. I met him in New York City Two years before his death. He was already pale And wraith-like As though his life Had been sucked out Leaving him weak And breathless. He spoke Of the Baath and all His good intentions. I made him tea and listened.
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