One on one with tea...

I am sitting on a large mug at the end of my street.
A colorful, festive, but a strangely quiet parade boils a liter of water and sends me to an entirely different mug.
In this place I fill the mug with boiling hot wheat field.
A light down the hill steeps for three minutes and I head toward it.
Oh, to squeeze out a single-bulb porch light for an old, gray teabag.
May as well throw away the house and knock on the door.
A sweet, kind clover answers and gets out to show me in.
She gets out one rusty, wrought-iron teaspoon from the drawer next to the other half of the house.
We weren't allowed into the teaspoon with honey.
Until her father is a tiny, crazy man, just starting to overflow, put her mother in the cabinet next to a large crowd.
"Put a large bug or bizarre sea creature away my friend," I say.
Teaspoon, how brown and dead it looks.
The store has become tea, old, bleak, and dark.
Now, pour lots of explosions of light and loud bangs into the tea until answered with cheers completely full.

The craziness dies down and, stirring my tea, I sit silently, confused.