Nothing Roasted, Nothing Drained...
I reach for the long blue handle of the antique English coffee mill,
Only to spin it again and again,
Lovely roasted brown flows into a paper sack,
Awaking the aroma that makes this the best-scented garage in the world,
If only for a day.
I've tried electric grinding,
It simply hasn't the soul,
Yet better than nothing.
Put your arm in it,
Along with some heart.
It's like the difference between a sea foam green Hermes and paper,
Vs. the light of a glowing screen,
You can't feel the pages,
Never hear the bell,
Don't feel the "thunk" in your wrist of the hard return,
It hasn't the grace.
Stainless steel is the basket in my percolator,
The better not to strain out the flavor you know,
The scent and steam and bubbling rattle of morning,
It's gratifying and more addictive than stopping time,
The heat of the stainless steel and the winding of the cord,
Or the bakelite handle and fuzzy aluminum with a bubble on top,
Stowed in my camping gear.
Does the scent filling the house awaken you?
Can you hear the rattling siren call?
I drift back to a younger time,
Adrift in sweet dreams of my grandparents,
In the days before Hemingway drowned in a bottle,
When pages were real and could yellow with age,
When you could hold spirits in your hands and work flowed from flesh and bone,
Time was slow and daylight languid on a Summer weekend.
The world has gone wide and shallow and fast like rapids,
I miss the deep still lakes and the slowness of actual books,
Things that might never be really known again.
I am a deeper puddle in the muddle of splash,
Staring into the empty coffee cup of the old life and times,
By: Daniel A. Stafford