Coffee: A Love Poem
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The hot coffee that you make,
smooth and rich and bittersweet too,
gently helps me wake.
You scoop grounds with a steady hand (but oh! mine quake),
each night to say good morning and to
gently help me wake.
You press a well worn auto-brew button for my sake,
an asynchronous “I love you,” through
the hot coffee that you make.
As new loves we stayed in bed, later choosing to forsake
our work to read wordlessly in coffee bars, knees touching to
gently help us wake.
In Trastevere, on our honeymoon we loved to partake
in no less than a perfect caffè fantasy — second favorite to
the hot coffee that you make.
Twenty years hence, you sleep at dawn. I’m awake.
I drowsily smile as thoughts shift to two —
the hot coffee that you make
and how you gently (reliably; deliciously!) help me wake.
