I prepare her tea before she wakes, as any man should do,
as though my worth as partner might be measured in the brew.
I tend the thought she stirs awake and finds it ready near,
a daybreak cup's the perfect thing her rousing head to clear.
I alight while dawn is still unsure if it should show its face,
and move about the galley at a practiced teaman's pace.
I ready a preemptive cup she’ll surely soon adore,
the habit of a fellow who’s done this countless times before.
The teapot hums its gentle song, though I dare not let it scream,
for one shrill note could wake her up and ruin all my schemes.
And even though she’s sleeping, I know exactly what she wants,
decoct, one sugar, full-fat cream, - no pretence or ponce.
The tea is less a beverage than proof of my attention,
a quiet household ritual steeped in the noblest of intentions.
Before she ever dreams of asking me, on her nightstand is the pour,
I'm quite happy to do it, this is what good men are for.