I pour another cup of coffee from the French press,
careful of that last drop which always runs the seam,
I have learned to return the pot upright in mid-air,
to suspend it there to allow that bead of henna to fall
to the center of the pool defined by the rim,
lest it mar my desk’s blotter.

Sunlight is wan this morning. I am reminded of crying
babies and wahwah pedals, petals, and peddles, then paddles,
always upstream it seems
these days (Eagles – right?)
the grounds of French-pressed java puddle on bottom
– drink ’em up.

Hell, light ’em up
if you’ve got them.

Words surround me like angry hornets, disturbed and fecund,
buzzing till they tickle, then alight, sticking to the glue-strip
I am. Others I zap with the blue-light, happy to see them go.

I never knew there were so many paths out of here.

Are these the roads least traveled they’ve talked about?
Who are they?

Who am I?

I wish that the tips of the leaves of my bamboo plants
would stop turning yellow. I cheat sometimes and snip them.

The baseboard’s creak and the tick of
the battery-run clock featuring the Eiffel Tower
beat out their own rhythms, syncopating around me
in odd-on-odd Eastern patterns, classical Indian tabla
from arbitrary forms; the world is a sensual melange
to relish through dance. Breathing.

When all is still and I am one with the day, the world without me
prays that within me, sadness is gone.

Chagall 2018