Not for you, the instant potion
that awakens me each morning.
To me, coffee is fuel.
To you, it’s an art form.
How purposefully
you grind the coffee beans.
How carefully
you load up the machine
with the rich smell
of the rainforest.
I sit expectantly
at your kitchen table.
You wait patiently
while the java brews.
And it’s ballet of the hands
when you pour that
nut-brown nectar into a mug,
add just the right amount of milk,
place your masterpiece before me.
Our conversation may be lightweight
but not the taste of this blend.
You look like me
when I hand a poem to someone
for feedback.
You’re confident
but not completely devoid of anxiety.
A smile crosses my lips
as the first drops go down.
You respond in kind.
That makes two smiles.
Relationships have blossomed with less.
My typical morning coffee
invokes no more than an abbreviated yawn
in a nearby mirror.
Two wasted faces
begin the day and nothing more.
John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, River And South and The Alembic. Latest books, Bittersweet, Subject Matters, and Between Two Fires are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Paterson Literary Review, White Wall Review and Flights.