Death

a friend’s sudden death—

even my morning coffee

gives me no pleasure

Nothing

The same coffee cup

from which my father once drank

holds nothing for me.

The year’s first coffee,

poured into a paper cup,

soon loses its steam.

drinking to the dregs

my seventh cup of coffee

on the solstice watch

gulping hot coffee

after an autumn downpour

soaks me to the bone

on the waterfront

with coffee and a guidebook—

grey-day contentment

torturous journey

into a summer morning—

empty coffee cup