Latest poem: A HUSBAND MAKES COFFEE Morning’s tab pulls back, light finding feet on cold tile, yours wrapped still in the chrysalis of waking. I lift yesterday’s grounds from the spacecraft on our counter, physics lab at sunrise. Eyes slits, composting goo, used filter fanned like Shakespeare’s collar, I measure scoops from far-off farms, then a bit more because I like the honesty of fractions. Water right above the line for a just-you-kind-of-pot, imaginary contest of who comes closest, dump the excess and I’m an 80s waitress, bent elbow nixing spillage, sloshing down the shaft. A button’s green light says go, go live your morning elsewhere while I turn liquid to gas, powder to coffee, beans to life surging through the blood. This alchemy wasn’t mine till 32, when fatherhood called for Olympic presence in the unwinding hours. Carafe up, black stream steams into your mug, two teaspoons of organic raw then a bit more because I like the honesty of fractions. Add cream, mix, wipe the counter, unplug. Push back. Step away. Truth is, I love to get you going. For you, I want to be the heat, the water, the steam and the brew. I want even to be the little green light telling you to go, go live your day elsewhere while I turn night into sunshine, trash into sprouts— a green light signaling that the road of all our days to come is clear.
Posted on: Sat, 28 Sep 2013 19:03:52 +0000
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