Irish Breakfast Tea: Because all of ours must be yours

By Atieno Nyar Kasagam

Three white women,
Young women,
Sitting on the other side of the window,
Starbucks in Grosse Pointe.

I clocked one,
who had been watching me,
Slice through the avocado,
hidden under the table,
on my lap,
and butter it,
on two slices of yummy bread,
that I had carried with me from home.

She nudged her friend,
I caught them both staring at me,
‘Catching me’
and my first instinct,
was to extend my sandwich over to them,
pointing it at the window,

Her friend smacked her on the arm,
She had turned away quick,
Ashamed,
maybe,
of trying to shame me?

Sitting there,
Are they still talking about me?
“How cheap can a n**er be?”
Stealing glances,
I can still see,
“Must be good, she munching with glee”

I sip my cup of irish tea,
Starbucks cup but baby please,
Spent not a dime,
the water’s free,
My purse is full of goodies for me,

I only wonder about this tea,
it says on the back,
in tiny tiny print,
highest quality from India this tea,

So,
Why you call it Irish tea?

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