Percussive sounds of rain
Accompany whistling gusts
That announce the arrival of a front.
Coffee in the morning, solitary
Browsing online, mist rising
Above the rain-slicked vegetation
And I think, “Bread.”
Coffee requires toast.
Toast requires thought, and
Butter, and jam.
Coffee, toast, and jam,
On a rain-dark day, and this is
The nothing that is more.
On Tuesday, the television craps
And dismembers the news. Tanker
Truck demolishes a family. Pixels are
A falsehood on the screen; real flesh,
Real blood, real mourning, screams
That tear at throats and longer days
With tears and loss and empty mornings
Survived with coffee and no peace.
On Friday, the traffic increases,
People fleeing town, somewhere
Better lures them, hopes for
A longer day, rain-slicked chairs,
And coffee, perhaps, with toast
And jam and maybe