Years before the Mexican
silversmith tooled the tall cups
favored for their quick and smooth frost,
the genteel process had been rendered.
Equal parts recipe and presentation,
the linen cloth vital
as the finely shaved ice,
the swollen wooden pestle no more
important than the mint just minutes
out of its garden spot by the side wall.
We sip through silver straws,
savoring the delicious scandal about
the ambassador's china, watching
with heavy lids as the women ride
the long arc of the rope swing,
skirts rising with the notes of
their laughter. We do not hurry.
The honeyed bourbon slips down our throats.
The breeze slides across our brows.
The day seeps away.