Mrs. Patterson Coughed Again

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
Sisukiro: In the schoolroom at 4:15 PM, Point Nemo, 55 degrees Fahrenheit,
Mrs. Patterson opens the tin of dried kumquat peels.
The air sharpens with citrus, little gold gems from the citrus family,
as Edward Lear might have called them in 1871.
She says the word: kumquat.

[Chorus]
Bouba: Kumquat? What's wrong with kumquat?
It's just a fruit, small and orange, from Hong Kong seeds in 2009.
Why does she cough like that, hand to her shawl?
Sisukiro: The twins lean forward, desks creaking,
puzzled by the sound, the word hanging like chalk dust.

[Verse 2]
Bouba: I pick one peel, bitter on my tongue,
the tin's lid etched with faint scratches, like her initials on the desk.
Mrs. Patterson clutches the brass hand bell, tarnished by salt air,
but doesn't ring it yet.
Her cough echoes, dry as the peels.

[Bridge]
Sisukiro: She thinks of Victorian manuals, Mrs. Beeton in 1861,
words that snag in polite throats.
But here, on this rock, the twins blink,
innocent as the runcible spoon in Lear's verse.
They do not understand the cough's secret.

[Verse 3]
Bouba: Is it the smell? The musty wool mixed with zest?
Or the way the word rolls, phonetic tangle.
I offer her the tin, but she waves it away,
eyes watering slightly in the pale twilight.

[Chorus]
Bouba: Kumquat? Just kumquat.
Sisukiro: The room holds its breath, 12 degrees Celsius chill,
the porcelain teacup half-full, chamomile cooling.
Why this word, of all words?

[Outro]
Sisukiro: And so the lesson ends early, unspoken.