First Murderer: We are men, my liege.
Macbeth: Ay, in the catalogue ye go for men…
                        (Macbeth, Act 3, Scene 1)

You know,
From my own point of view,
The table, with all those
Roundish white cups arranged
In a circle, looked like
The dial of an old-
Fashioned brown telephone.

Tea tasters
Are the most highly paid;
They’ve a discerning taste.
So, to be called to tea,
At nine in the morning,
By them was an honour
That could not be refused.

Each cup
Was of white porcelain,
Expensive, probably.
(And a middle class chill
Numbed my stockinged feet.)
Each was filled half the way
With clear, coloured liquid.

Oolong.
Orange pekoe. White.
First flush. High Darjeeling.
Orthodox Assam Tea.
What’s the colour? Orange?
Light molten gold? Wine red?
The colour of the tea? Yes?

Don’t drink
It up. Swirl in the mouth
Spit it out. Wait for the
Subtle aftertastes to come.
Did you get it? Here’s some
Water. Rinse your mouth out
Quite thoroughly, you know.

Which one
Did you like? The bold or
The bittersweet? Which?
I twiddled my thumbs and
Shuffled my feet again.
The telephone dial
Looked up askance at me.

I think
It’s enough for all to
Know, that I had been
Quite disowned. I had
A democratic taste,
They said. But, they haunt me,
Those myriad aftertastes.