Early Morning Coffee
The morning comes earlier than coffee
Which doesn’t usually stop me
So much as it throws me for a loop
As I try to count each scoop
And figure out the “brew now” button.
The coffee comes earlier than the mourning
On those days when it’s adorning
My work shirts.
Some mornings, I’m simply confused
When I look at you mean
With the lack of abused
My legs are too hot to write tonight
Not that they’re the ones who’d write to sight
What you’re reading, but they’re gaining stick from sweat
Building underneath this laptop I set
Down on my lap to write
About sweaty legs tonight.
Warm to the touch,
Asks me if I’d like to wear sun screen.
“No.” I say, freckling in between
open spaces filled with such
Tinfoil cup of dirt dried out.
Tried out growing my own seeds
But my basil days’ll be unwound
Unless I go for store-bought ground
And store-bought plants that might
grow on up without a fight.
Wrapped inside a layer of paper,
One that you take off and then scrape or
Lick or pick at to get that
Goodness that you’d miss
If you’d simply kiss the obvious.
Wet your lips with sugar crystals,
Fire frosting down like pistols,
Push past the biological stability
To engage the utility of a sugar crash
Pulled out of the stash at a rest stop
Before everyone’s ready to drop
On the next leg of your trip,
Suspended in time like an icicle doomed
Inside my garage lives my bicycle tombed
Calmly waiting for his resurrection,
Wanting abuse instead of protection.
We should weave through on single track trails
Instead of lacking luster with dust or entrails
Of those caught in the arachnid’s weave,
Spun out in wheeled out webs we receive
From someone that just wants to hang us out to dry,
Wait for gears to squeak, tires to sigh,
Then deflate us down to tire rot,
And tell us that our rims are shot.
It’s time to ride around the trees in
our single track trail
Let living prevail
And get dusty for the right reason.
Upside down trailers become forgotten
After my kids are brought in
Midstream of their playing.
Interrupted by the urgency of me saying
I forget the urgency
Of why it had to be right then.
Maybe I never knew it in the first place
Because when I trace back time
To the moment I’m
Saying “It’s dinnertime.”
I’m left with a hunger for
Giving them more
Time to play
A lengthier dinnertime delay.
I ate some flour, straight up
Then I had a cup
of water, yeast and salt.
It was my wife’s fault.
The next time she told me the directions
And with a few minor corrections
I wasn’t smacking my mouth in a paste
Of floury aftertaste.
I ate bread instead.
At least one prayer comes out as a flame.
Syllables sip saliva and slide out
Under the breath of your name,
Untranslated, but slated for repetition,
saying something to me,
Saying something to be
beyond a doubt
more than a mutter.
This slyabic stutter that won’t go out
gives way to every day
speaking more of you.
Movable markings are torn asunder
Unstuck and stuck on a wall of wonder
That locks-in the winter air, cooling the juice.
While outside there’s a magnetic truce
That’s being unwritten
By kids smitten
With letter groupings that show
Kid-words that grown-ups don’t know.