My Cardboard Balcony

Come Have A Cup by Belinda Roddie Come have a cup of maple ginger tea with me on this chilly September night. It doesn't taste exactly as I dreamed that it would taste, but the brew is all right. I'll let your head rest on my shoulder, steep the contents of my mug until it's dark, and count the minutes 'til I fall asleep while trains roar and the neighborhood dogs bark a chorus of threats and apologies. There isn't much to offer, where I stand, the words meager, all too surprisingly, so I compensate by holding your hand, remembering why I hold you so dear, as my sonnets total one complete year.

To be polite, one must hold their tongue. They must stand their ground, yet not utter a sound. They must appease every single one of their colleagues, even if perhaps they are wrong. One must hold their fork and knife in the correct hands, at the correct angle, at the correct time. But courtesy isn't always required, and some bastards should just be stabbed in the eye by tines.