Contemplation on Coffee

It’s four A.M. Coffee always starts
This way, the three-legged beast that gallops out
The big red barndoor of the midnight wake
In search of pasture good for food, for art,
For all between, and, finding it’s not about
To blossom into morning, leaves it’s ache

In tired eyes. It’s main mark, it’s dream-
Like machinations, or solvent there unto,
Continues long beyond the pallet’s con-
Sciousness, punctuated by the roaring stream
Of random thoughts that make a passage through
The body till the bladder sends them on.

No comments:

Post a Comment