And I will make you coffee
from the rich, dark Sumatran beans
I keep in the mason jar,
on the shelf,
just for myself,
hidden from casual visitors
inquisitors and transitors,
who finally meet my garret ways.

The finite gift from far, far away,
to you,
you can’t undo the brewing once I’ve started.

I know you’re more of tea
and honeyed sips of china cups,
in cold New England winters,
but the piece of me you see
is desert born,
and scorns leaves for beans.

I think my cigarettes will be your leaving,
but you’ll delay,
two- handed cup my mug and stay,
with silent grieving for my
passive, suicidal way.

Oh the feelings you express
and dress in cumming’s punctuation,
deems a nation not short of here,
not terraced mountain slopes
but rugged, angry hills of heat and humid
trails down jungle vales,
with beasts most dangerous.

Oh, the feelings you express,
so far, far away,
are where you take me,
the way you rake me,
shake me,
by the root,
with a hoot and my slobber down my front,
entranced and struck dumb
by torrents left to feel,
and seal the imprint on my soul.

10/31/2015

Posted on 10/31/2015
Copyright © 2024 Timothy Somers