At half past six, the staid hour comes
with its old air of boredom
when they, for tea, group on the couch
and smile with trueness seldom.

The teapot is the interceder—
while passing hands, it tries to peek
into their too diffident mouths
to make their buried voices speak.

The sister gives a gentle grin,
then follows soon the brother;
Their parents' non-contacting eyes
then turn towards each other.

Then come the routinary lines:
"Today, the weather's just too bad,"
"The neighbour left their garth unmown,"
or "You should get a shave, my lad."

And all are in their best charades
to prove their faces—happy, solved,
although within their minds there is
a sense of deep ennui involved.