She’s not pedigreed, her fortunes went to seed
When her parents died with the Six O’clock news feed.
It was an accident, the Talking Heads said.
And just like that…she had to start life afresh as a maid.
In the boss’ house, she was all but seen.
The boss was always whiskey-blind and never keen
To notice that she was the authoress of a happiness not her own
As she kept everyone’s shared smile close to the cheekbone.
Poverty lost its eternity to number of days,
I wished to date her like a calendar for the ways
She poured sunrise into the amber glow of a red-light,
Her sexiness is not for the moonstruck shadows of the night.
Nor the bent knee, genuflecting inside of a Pentecostal.
I said her beauty is something to write home about and my girl went postal.
But her anger cannot unpetal a blossoming reality
That the tea girl is my cup of tea…especially without the tea.
Poem: Tea girl Written by: Philip Matogo