Not Home Brewed

A day away the coffee is commercial,
only here because I’ve got the cash—
weak as morning without you
trying for a taste that waits hidden
only in the beans you grind—

garage band loud love song.
You crash
the tar brown beans, releasing joy—

what you want to give me again
the lure of another day dripping
in your machine music as I write.

You turn
and shape trees,
coffee-making not your only art,

but just the one I miss
when the mug I lift to my faraway lips
holds only some suggestion
of the cinnamon-kissed communion
we share.

This fake creamer coffee needs
the sweet tongue taste,
that exotic tree bark spice
to carry my mouth home to you.

Holding the cup close to my face
I inhale long, nose searching.

It’s just
as good as the cook
can muster,
someone’s best.
No doubt in my heart.

But it’s
just wrong.

5-8-05