aching feet are forgotten once
I sit on a red banquette.
we’ve gone to Russia
by way of the MTA.
my mother would tell me
to cross my ankles, not my legs.
here is the upper class,
for ten American dollars.
it buys about three cups of tea.
“Earl Grey, orange, and mandarin,”
with a sour cherry for taste.
the Cyrillic trips over my tongue
and I am corrected by the waiter
in his double-breasted coat.
had I avoided the vowel blend
perhaps I would have been offered
wine, caviar, pleasures known only to
dowagers and celebrities.
when we’ve drained the cups
and read the leaves, we notice
the place is empty and scurry out
with heads bowed in reverence
at the novelty of afternoon tea
late on a Tuesday winter’s night.