The Olympics

Parisians booed and cried in disappointment.
It could have been Paris—
Imagine athletes
Sitting at Bistros, sidewalk cafes
Sipping soup-bowl sized cups
Of hot cocoa or latte
And sexily, slinkely pulling on Marlboros
Before they perform.

It could have been the Metro instead of the Tube.

Baghdad was not
On the final ballot
Of places to host the Olympics.
Imagine athletes crouched down
Behind the seats of
Black SUVs on their way to the arenas.

Sweet or Savory—
Regardless of what the French may say—
Athletes will be nourished by
Scones, clotted cream, and black tea.

One morning tealeaves
Circled in the acidic juice.
They made their way past
Security and into the white porcelain cup.
I read them.
A bus exploded
In London.
I saw spirits rising in the steam.

I suppose I was not sure about a certain leaf.
It switched directions.
That morning it wasn’t a bus in London
But in a mysterious place—unknown to me.
Suddenly, the message was indecipherable.

So, I gave up,
Asked for my check,
And didn’t think of it again.