“What are you doing, love?”
“Brewing coffee, cooking rice
thanking geese that venture into dreams
loud and early,
banishing nightmares out of city skies,
plotting ways to make it up to my heart; you, baby?”
through the woods with my eyes closed,
wondering how to adorn my handwritten thoughts…
I have been thrilling on the idea of easel poetry,
wee bits of written life leaning on upcycled tripods.
Still, no garnishing for my words’ canvases.”
them with coffee rings
real ones. From a bit of dark and sweet
liquid that slow-dances over the edges
of your morning cup, kissed and tasted,
made real by living lips, my baby’s
living poetry written on coffee filters and rice paper,
garnished—what a pretty word that is, garnished—
with kissed hot and sweet coffee.
Your nightmare, love, what was it about?”
let some guy borrow my bike, my perfect bike;
brown framed, silked in green paint,
ready for life’s wars. In my dreams, I knew
I’d ridden others, but none like my chosen bike.
I went to the place where the guy was keeping it,
I kicked all I saw. I wanted my bike back,
but nothing there was mine.”
let him. You let the guy borrow your bike.”
know. I knew. The guy took care of my bike, too,
but never like I would.
No one can treat my baby like I do.”
wasn’t the guy’s fault.”
And I wasn’t mad at the guy.
I destroyed the place
because I was the one to let the guy in.”
you find your bike?
In your dreams,
did you get your perfect bike back?”
what, love? What will you—?”
spend days and nights taking care of my baby,
making it up to us, showing love with heart and hands.
And you, what will you do, baby?”
will write rice and coffee poesy.”
- for Poets and Storytellers United--Friday Writings #42: Choices, where Rosemary invites us to consider a choice we made (large or small) and write of what followed.