Eight at the Fort: a poem

Eight at the Fort

A Harney & Sons tea:
eight varieties blended 'harmoniously'
for the occasion of Clinton's meeting 
with G8 leaders in '97.
"The Fort" being a restaurant in the Rockies,
above Denver.

Not a bad etymology for the name of a tea, but 
it disappoints me, to be honest. For me, 
"Eight at the Fort" evokes a civil 
morning's breakfast at a military outpost.
Not in a "mess," but perhaps at
the officer's club. Or, no, maybe
even that formulation is too recent,
anachronistic to my thoughts. 

"The Fort," for me, suggests the 
gentleman gatherings as Jane Austen
imagined them, or Chekov. Tolstoy, 
perhaps. The soldiers and officers of Pride 
and Prejudice or "The Kiss," or War and Peace.
Shakespeare's kings and lords standing on 
the rise, the morning's battle taking place below. 

Which is to say that when I drink
Eight at the Fort, I feel vaguely
martial and literary,
connected to a a history that
I and others have steeped with other
schools of knowledge,
and filtered through our imaginations. 

Having finished my cup,
I'm ready to take up my pen,
again, and wage literary battle--
or just conduct drills, or do routine cleaning--
prepared for another day, another year,
of writing in the trenches.