Morning coffee

Black gold, they used to call it.

Shunned and banned.

Made it into the divination arts.

Revered. Started wars.

For me, just a morning coffee.

Well, not just just. Maybe.

Its dark, lidless eyeball 

Seen above the cup

Mydriatic iris

Keeping awake, alert,

When the booze failed.

Crows and bluebirds not up yet.

The blinking of the stars

Maybe because the moon left.

Pretty much like the wife.

One realises soon enough

Lust is one thing

Love another

One lasts longer than the body

The other longer than death

One cannot escape reality

Whatever folk say

Both pretty much like coffee

You can’t have the taste

Without the disputes

They made the taste, one could say

You can’t have the goodness

And not pay for it

Sooner and later

Funny how morning coffees feel

I could play dead

Nobody would care

Nobody would know

I could be dead

I wouldn’t myself know

Sunbleached like a cherry pit

Dried up like a coffee bean

I could have loved

Anyone but I loved her

I need more morning coffee

More lives to recall and

Tell her how much