Coffee
The delight of this, the happiness it brings, how it is shared.
The delight of this, the way it is made,
The happiness it brings, the joy it makes,
How it is shared, and how it is not,
Coffee, how big are the joys of this little cup.
The delight of this, the simple warm mugs,
The happiness it brings, the service smiles and conversational prompts,
How it is shared, through every culture and place,
Coffee, the real hugs are always brought in some kind of mug.
The delight of this, the inviting nature of cafes,
The happiness it brings, sharing coffee with those unacquainted,
How it is shared, when we all sit around,
Coffee, the way it lets many walks of life share one roof.
The delight of this, words between steamed milk and hanging art,
The happiness it brings, dipping swirls of pastry like paint strokes on canvas,
How it is shared, watching strangers race by,
Coffee, the sit down, stop, and calm, of the busy world outside.
About the Creator
Charlotte Eden
Big imagination,
black and white words,
grateful for each day as it unfurls.
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1:49am
4/16/25 1:49am I want to breathe death in my larynx and feel loose change in the torn and raggedy pockets of my mother’s cardigan. The water is next to the bed. It’s not cold and never will be. So I guess what’s left is us; we will walk with crooked feet on a path carved by ancient societies. You will borrow my shoes. I will taste vengeance in my tea and convince myself it’s good for my liver. Coffee is fine too. Yes, that’s all. I will think about how I want to kiss you and, the clouds, they will rise to space, and leaves, they will glue their limbs back together. The sun has been out for weeks. This screw isn’t any looser than when I bought it. But I will wake up and I will be in the ship that splits in two and slide my sullen palms across its tundric pillow. I never took swimming lessons so whatever happens is meant to be. I’m sorry if that upsets you. I’m sorry I said that. Anyway, I want to lie nude in wildflowers with ants who build colonies and worms who can’t see. You have a problem with textures. You can’t help it. I could try to tell you things, like how I want my children to understand how little everything is and to not be afraid of the giant fingers that grab at sewing needles in their dreams. I could say it always scared me. It’s just not right. But listen, back to it: I want to indulge in passion and binge affection. Is it a sin if it helps? I will endure the things I am given and inculcate everyone around me to do the same. Do five laps around the block before you respond, whatever helps. I will tell you I want harmony to be palpable and wheels of recognition to be locked in an imperishable gear. Refill the pot if it’s empty. What I want has nothing to do with me. Diagonal tile is cold, you know, and my hair gets crunchy after too long out there. I want this lesson to end.
By Olivia Dodge7 days ago in Poets
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