Poetry

Coffee

Appetizing aroma
seeping
through the register
invading my slumber
arousing my senses.

Disoriented
suddenly, I am back in France
at the Cafe Josephine
where you proposed.

The unsteady square table
nearly tipped when
I jumped
out of my chair
and threw my arms
around your neck.

Our coffee spilled.

Rich, unique, strong,
it smells good
as you bring me a cup
of coffee
every morning.
Hot and flavorful
it tastes strong.

We are strong.

Cheap and bitter
as the years go by
the cheap coffee tastes bitter
and weak.

We are old and weak
like the coffee that sits
in the thermos overnight
leaving a bitter
aftertaste.

I struggle to swallow.

I want
a fresh
hot
cup
of coffee.

PS — Rich did not propose in a cafe in France. I just made that up. Ha Ha. Not everything I write is true. That’s why it is called “creative” writing.

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