French Press

Bitter black beans

He goes and gets the coffee grinder

Yawning out into the morning

Like a lazy rooster who won’t come calling

Sizzle snap, and sap from a tree

He makes sausage and pancakes

He justifies his optimistic gluttony with the winter wind

Burning his skin as egg whites slide in to swim

Breakfast in bed before the day begins

He watches the birds in the snow

The sausage tastes like cast iron rust

The coffee tastes like Turkish conquest

He hated his job but he understands

Without the work why would he need his

Holy cup of dark roast

a little bit of warmth in an otherwise cold world.