some find their future
in tea leaves
stuck
to the inner curve

some greet friends
and technically enemies
with mint tea
and little sympathy

some forget theirs
on the kitchen counter
while running
for the bus
or whatnot

in my ugly mug
if you pause to listen
the distant call of cinnamon
the whisper of Bukhara
carpets and aloof camels

the scent of heat
and cardemom