A hill-station breeze blows through the café:
the ladies are dressed for high tea and the waiters
polish the windows that keep the hot sand at bay.
Life here has left a bitter film on their lips,
which they purse whenever one of them mentions
how her children have gone home and her husband
works six-day weeks even during the summer.
As if that weren’t enough, the servants are lazy …
Then there are the locals, who are ignorant, venal,
tasteless, and, even worse, lucky. The ladies
are lonely: they want to go back to the You-Kay.
‘But then,’ one says, ‘we’re so comfortable here’ –
at which point all conspiracy dies. Like
moody nuns, the ladies nod in acknowledgement;
their talk drifts back to the weather.