A Cup of Coffee
It was something like night time;
half past nine o'clock and fully dark--
I remember how the winds blew,
the trees outside shook with winter
and it was cold for quite a while--
I watched how the frost nibbled
at the oncoming guests, none alike,
holding onto their gifts so proudly--
I wonder, what was even so important
that they would wade through snow?
The smell of grandma's home brew,
put my mind at ease, never bitter--
never once bitter, or too strong,
or too mild, it was as if she knew--
the troubles I would endure.
All my cousins, and their cousins,
uncles, aunts, nephews and nieces,
three and four generations together--
dishes and furniture would break
and all together, a hypocritical chant.
These pretenders and false believers,
like vultures that glide for a meal--
I shake my head, my hands tremble,
I long for rest though it is hours away,
another piece of cake and a smile.
Another sip of the Colombian blend,
the taste is sweet, my throat, soothing--
my lips feel honest and serene,
nothing can take this from me--
no, not even this empty crowd.
There is a great deal to speak of,
judgement is passed with the salt--
I do not wish to hear their voices,
for their problems are all my fault--
and I, must seal up like a vault,
more ripples in my cup of coffee...
Copyright © Marcello Colasurdo