Sunday Coffee

Meeting strangers at the coffeehouse,

Collecting samples.

The November maladies,

The struggles finding hiking trails,

Where to put the kids when summer fractions

Into a thousand roasted shards,

The failing sun.

The grounds in the center of the French press

Carelessly set aside

Are decorating the mild breeze.

The younger woman buzzes

A charming caffeinated patter

Completely unaware.

You haven't patience for a drip contraption,

Always taking sugar and cream

With haste.

The automatic brewer sits on top my counter.

I haven't used it since July.

I told you how in Venice

You approach the stand

And throw it back like a bourbon shot,

Your morning covers,

A left swipe,

Or used-up lover,

Warmth received

And gone.

- 11/18/25