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
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