The Dunk

Steam swirls curl up from the cup summoning a biscuit battalion:
Little brittle squaddies waiting to be called.

I grip one; a ginger sergeant. Granite hard in fiction
but buttery flour and sugary in truth.

He eyes my sea of sepia tea and I whisper, ‘easy soldier!’
The ensuring plunge is perilous.

The tea swells, its tiny tides tugging at his sides.
Dip… dip… drip… He trembles.

Misjudge and he will liquify, see himself dismembered by the dunk.
One more dip, he’ll be sunk.

But fickle tea says: Never mind, there’s plenty more of me.
Bring in Private Bourbon.