Coffee Grounds (deb)

Coffee Grounds


If I were to hold my heart in your kitchen,
with its pink curtains and chartreuse stove and plastic
burners glowing supernatural orange, I’d fire up
the griddle and open freezer doors. Streaming hot milk,
I would call you on the backline, I’d use the number
I’d found as the train lurched by, in my favorite blue
journal I’d sketch with my favorite black pencil.
There I would copy – I’m only a scribe decorating sacred text –
the code messaged on a billboard selling milk from happy,
only happy black and white cows. It was you singing to me,
streaming time. But the lead broke and the number was ruined.
Take down the election posters, the contest has been turned
over to substitute-teachers. Ride the bus backwards
from one end of the line to the other and put expired
stamps on postcards addressed to long-dead virgin aunts.
Turn the compost pile and make a fresh pot, streaming hot.

* * *



This strange poem-like thing is a first draft from a free-write inspired by Read Write Poem's prompt for this week, which was to let go of my imagination, as in let it loose. Go read other's personal interpretation on this theme; there ought to be some interesting poetry let out and about.

I think that while this is good for stretching some stiff imaginary muscles, my poem is only an exercise. I think I'll try more of this, but I won't post it when it's quite so raw.

Of course, while I've been writing I've also been staying up late tonight, waiting for one of my cats to come home. Silly girl. She's in now, so I can retire in peace.