poetry

Cof[fee]

There’s a fee for almost everything:

almost nothing is free of

fees: fees for this, and fees for

that.  I’d eat my hat but my hat’s got

fleas.

But like unconditional love,

one thing in life is quite free of all fee.

When I wake up, don’t make up (still a man

who doesn’t do the lipstick he’d love to

kiss; the eye-liner he’d love to see around

those deep round eyes of love

and sex and burning ambition, and

wild neglect; the foundation that’d

lay the foundations for days

of glamorous outings and

nights of fabulous innings – not

cricket at all, but who cares any more?) …

and the wet wake-up call I most enjoy

in the absence of your damp skin touching

my skin is the smell and sound of

coffee that is made in my machines

and percolated like ancient water

through the granite of your heart.

And although the coffee does have a fee

where shop intervenes in

distribution and sale, where the

cost of coffee no can do is in its reverential

ritual of making.

The huge return, like sexual membership

of exclusive club, by now of dark and natural

hub, is the pleasure of the senses

that opening the tin and the din of smells

and the evoking of memories as yet unlaid down

(but is it possible to have a memory of

something yet to happen?  Maybe it is: your

love for me already seems natural as

patterns that weave in lives still unlived

but clearly on their way to experiencing).

 

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