Coffa Cuppee

            People reading the four coffee-themed poems below might think they are dealing with an addict. They would be right. But just because I’m an addict does not mean that I have a problem.

            These poems are about ten years old. Kim was making an artistic book about coffee while I was a Starbucks barista, and she needed some verbal content to go with all that she was doing visually. (There’s only one copy of the book, so I can’t share it with you here.)

            As I read these over now, fueled by coffee for the unpacking part of our move, I notice that I have plagiarized from myself a couple of times. So, what?

Coffa Cuppee

When I drink my coffa cuppee

sleep awakens, down is uppee.

Cowboy coffee leaves some grit

to tongue long after drinking it.

Irish coffee – there’s a drink

to liberate creative think.

Even de-caf when the doc

wants to slow my tick and tock.

Zapped, identified as “pseudu,”

still works arabica voodoo.

Black, espresso, cappuccino,

drip or percolated – we know

Coffa cuppee – make it two!

Down is uppee – magic brew!

Coffee Breaks

Sometimes java jazz

makes synapses crackle

and brain cells dance

until I can do anything

and everything    pages

flash through my brain

love is quick and stylish

or young and languid

your hair the brown

of fresh coffee the way

god made it    warm

fragrant     bittersweet

Sometimes we share

Sumatra in silence

or idle chatter across

the expanse of our table

and it’s here we are

again you and me

and the coffee in jadeite

or white ceramic    the two

of us plus birds beyond

the window     words

about our families     these

and the shared flavor

And sometimes it’s Starbucks

or Sweetwaters     a pause

on our errands to infuse

ambiance and a mug

surrounded by earthy

colors and artwork

inviting us to linger

where a guy leans over

his laptop or two young women

shake their heads at the folly

and this middle-aged couple

shares coffee and their day

Relax Attacks

Havva cuppa     tall or grande

cappuccino     latte    hand me

coffee     black or room for cow

couldn’t really care less how

mug or to-go     demi-    maxi-

caf or de-     relax attacks me

off the lid to waft aroma

synapses crackle     I’m at home a-

way from any where I sip

or gulp or idly get a grip

by car     or sofa    buzzing fast

or slow     prolong my coffee blast

where black is brown and white is tan

baristas percolate élan

I roast my beans     French or Italian

then dance Sumatran     Guatamalan

Kona     Java    Costa Rica

jungle jingles     magnifique

espresso single double cap

fuels this caffeinated rap

House Blend

We pause, a middle-aged

couple, to share coffee

and perhaps a mid-

afternoon treat.

                             You

emerge from your art

room, I from my study,

and we re-heat what’s

left from the morning

pot.

          We face eath other.

We read the mail. Talk

about kids and grandkids.

Sip. Plan tomorrow.

                                    Then

rinse our cups and return

to whatever we were doing.