Under the Jam Tree

Every evening
I sit
under the whistling jam tree
on the burnt tarred street,
and every time
I drink that milky chai
all I remember
is the time we spent
you, with your made up pain
the rest, a blank slate.

And now, in chilly July
there is nothing
but the tiny tea shack
with its biscuit bottles
laid out
just like you laid
your heart
on scattered shards
of ugly glass.