Good Cup Of Tea

My favorite mug from Ralph Lauren Home has the stripes but not the stars,
an Outlet find from Long Island's Eastern distant otherworld.
The coaster from the box bookstore's attempt to capitalize on everyday luxuries,
soy candles, storage boxes, and Montessori toys.
Not bought on sale, but a considered rarity in my life,
a purchase of delight in aesthetics, in self-love, a practice of giving to myself.
The steam still rises up in periodic puffs, an ant's foggy day,
Maybe a little too much sugar, a little too much milk,
cane sugar crystalized from the plant, organic milk,
which I must hunt to find in health food stores that stay shy of walking distance.
The tea is top shelf, overpriced and imported,
a tea I'd never buy for myself, but given to me as a gift by someone
whose name I forgot and whose existence I forgot,
given when he wanted to flash me his tail.
I forgot about this tea, stuffed behind extra boxes of Nature's Path cereals,
shuffled behind stocked cans of organic tomato sauce and net free tuna.
I never threw the tea tin away, even as I moved,
and so the gesture stayed.