ode to the 35 cent coffee that got me through
caves fabricated out of sour grape memories
dark coffee stained on Formica counter
in truck stop in early February morning
outskirts of Koontz Lake, Indiana.
the wall-eye beg for summer
the trees beg for summer
the snow like ash covers doorstep and car corpse
smoking and chugging and rolling over engine
like raising the dead and the sun is violet violence on the sky.
and when you look close, it makes white earth blanket glow like diamonds
and melts like mascara tears and it smells like a sharp cold ethereal battlefield.
thinking of the early long mornings
with pen and paper
and 35 cent diner coffee — lighting rocket fuel
and how some of us will die alone.
ode to the 35 cent coffee that got me through.