Though I've no real experience,
I dare say it starts with the tea.
The little tufts of steam
puff up into the brains
of the brits who sip earl
grey, then tumble out
their mouths when they mumble
accented soldiers' terms
or colonial colloquiums.
Out, out into the street,
settling into the cobblestone
cracks and misting around
loafers and knee-socks.
Soon the avenues and alleyways
are flooded with thick air.
All business must be cancelled
save those who work best
when lurking.
It rolls around until night,
when the moon sucks it all
up through her starry straw,
spits out the haze
into a penumbra halo.
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