I would not expect you to sympathise
Because the butter won’t spread on the scone
After all they are delicious; fresh, warm scones
Almost straight out of the oven
The butter is also fresh, that is
To say it is not soft, nor curdled
It too is straight from its place of keeping
Where it clearly is kept in good shape
I would not expect you to place much store
In my story of the scone, or the butter
Neither the jam, not forgetting the filter coffee
For here they do not do Americano
Nor for you to know that I was on my way
To reflexology, for an hour of calm
As I have my feet scrubbed, massaged
Altogether pampered
I could not tell you, until now
That I would have a small fan
In the treatment room, which gave
A cool breeze, in this the heat of summer
