Overcomplicating Tea

Overcomplicating Tea

She tells me that poetry overcomplicates itself.

I grip my teacup harder, lean
into the plastic sheen of the table.

You wouldn't understand, I say ' wouldn't stir
for the flame's grumble or its dance
like a windwhipped cloth. This is a tribal beat,
this poetry, and you
wouldn't see it in the earth's swell,
deep and pregnant underfoot as shadow-bodies
flit away, fire-flickering into gold,
transforming into jewels.
..........................................I inform her
that the chameleon overcomplicates
itself too; that it hides
in images among leaves
to flick at the passing fly.

...The fly, you understand,
...is the reader. Leaves are pages.

I pick a black speck from the tea
without her seeing and put it down
in front of her; but she's already
left without paying.