Steam rises from the weathered gray ceramic mug bathing my face in the essence of flor de jamaica, and pre-grated ginger rescued from the dark recesses of my fridge. Billie Holiday is warbling from the radio, forever set to that one ‘oldie but a goodie’ station Mrs. Moon got me hooked on. I stir in more and more honey. There’s a poem about this, I think.
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Does anybody know the poem?
If you can't figure it out, I win, and you subscribe.
You have one hint: the actual line goes something like.
"Billie Holiday is playing pretty late..."