Coffee
Whispers at eve marry wisps of steam over red eye
And beneath the table my feet finds yours for a footsie
Where we hope God's seven eyes will not see,
No wide-eyed moon, nor the barista to pry.
The moonbeam smears you silvery whipped cream
To be licked off greedily by my tongue grown too frozen for poetry
Caffeinated by your darkly roasted coffee -
skin I will on a grand piano serenade you on a whim.
Are there words you secretly crave I should know
Such as the zephyr tells the shrubs of coffee arabica that they dance gaily in the skies?
Would they be served well-expressed in my eyes
After the sixth emptied demitasse of expresso?
Copyright © Martins Deep | Year Posted 2019
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