Black Coffee

in 1933 they celebrated the birth
of their fourth son
and the end of prohibition

but time passed slowly in the dustbowl
and their eyes wouldn't connect
as they sat in fat silence
on either end of the oak dining room table –
his mistakes slithering around the floor
under her bare feet

evenings,
her hand cupped warm mugs of comfort
suspended to lips
sipped, slow, smooth, hot
liquid over lips
that were once kissed delicately

now, she’d stay up. 
till one, till two –
till the bright morning sun made him
into a black shadow
and sunflowers
slowly averted their gaze
as he passed
hobbling up the front steps
 
he returned to
her still folded
on the front porch;
a scuffed up doormat 
 
       I’m talkin' to the shadows
       one o'clock till four
       and Lord, how slow the moments go
       When all I do is pour
       black coffee

she was tired of having the leftovers
his sins bundled tightly in wax paper
reheated in a cast iron skillet
the next morning for breakfast
 
and after long nights of waiting,
fear percolating through her skin
eyes swollen
with the lingering flavor of hope
she poured herself another cup

and in between sips
she plunged hands into boiling water
and rinsed the taste of moonshine
from his shirts
and scrubbed the smell of boxcar girls
from his underwear
 
she drank her coffee black
no milk, never sugar
sweetness seemed like a lie at dusk
when she woke to feed the youngest

her silence was a staple,
like flour and water it could be kneaded
into just enough to keep them both alive
 
but coffee shouldn’t steep for too long
it gets bold
bitter
and very strong

and the leather suitcase they received as a wedding gift
was just big enough to fit two of her favourite dresses
and everything from the childrens’ dresser drawers

       black coffee
       feelin' low as the ground
       it's drivin' me crazy
       just waiting for my baby
       to maybe
       come around