Coffee Spills

What I hear and see and think about at the coffee shops I patronize.
Brisk. Fresh. Well-balanced. Occasional nutty and bittersweet overtones.
If you got here from my profile, you probably need to visit my main blog, Collecting My Thoughts which is updated every day.

Thursday, March 08, 2007

Prose Poem

This was an assignment for Poetry Thursday--write a prose poem. So here's the background, and it is cross-posted at Collecting my thoughts.

We had a mini-blizzard (really hit northwest and south of Columbus) with snow, then hours of sleet, and then more snow overnight. Most schools and many businesses closed. So going to the coffee shop Wednesday morning at 6 a.m. was a challenge just to back out of my drive-way; it was dark and cold and I had the streets to myself. I drafted this there, and rewrote and revised at home. The more I revised, the less prose-like it became. If you’re not a regular reader here, it’s just about a coffee shop on a snowy day. Now here’s the poem:

Come sit by the fire with me. Sit by the gas flames rising from fake logs. Warm us bright blaze in the dark by the pseudo-bricks as we tip Styrofoam cups with plastic lids, sip black brew browned with cream factory made. Animate brain cells, stir up stiff tongues tropical beans, red and bright when picked by dark hands, traveling on tankers guided by pale hands to bring us warmth and happy thoughts, brown after roasting in mills and bursting to dark beans, trucked by many hands along concrete interstates and asphalt by-ways to loading docks at dark coffee shops. Come sit by the fire with me in the dark, tasting warmth, watching the snow fall on icy lines--pity the bird toes--sending power to heat water piped and purified, dripping hot in the pot held by ethnic hands that fill my cup which warms my nose by the fire where we sit.

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