Turkish tea

brown leaves steep,
suspend light,
then sink in murky brew.
fingers and thumb embrace to
squeeze a concave waist of
smooth, curved glass in
contours of a sweaty palm
with no fortune to tell.
drops slide down
glass slopes to
draw rings of
paper stains.
round rim tips so
lips can clumsily sip
as brew dribbles
down a mouth corner,
embarrassed as
tongue burns but
throat warms.
cold metal spoon
conducts heat,
refuses to stir milk,
bathes lemon slices,
always absorbs
blue collar Turks'
white sugar cubes
in tea cups on street corners.