Percolating
Alone, sipping espresso,
I see my father light the burner,
and set a percolator on the stove.
A soft booga-booga begins.
Coffee bubbles into the glass knob,
then the acrid smell that makes him smile.
I watch him sit, sip, and sigh.
He tells me how he watched his father
carry wood and stoke the stove
to make his percolator perk.
And now, with them, I sit, sip, and sigh.
The Taste
The newspaper lies in the driveway,
waiting for the owner to come home,
the owner, whose wife died.
He moved to assisted living,
but still drives and comes daily.
He goes inside, brews coffee,
sits at the kitchen table,
and tastes life as it once was.
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Hypnos, God of Sleep
He creeps into my bed,
envelops me,
erases my worries,
and together,
we dream.
But on those nights
when he doesn't show,
and I know he's out
sleeping with others.
I wait and watch, and
add him to my worries.
He ruins my nights,
disturbs my days,
and he never listens.
My counselor says,
You're stuck with him.
Calm him with chamomile,
soothe him with love talk.
That night, he watches
as I brew his tea,
bathe, dab lavender,
turn on Brahms,
and get into bed early,
hoping he's pleased,
hoping he stays the night.
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