Coffee in November

I am caffine incarnate.

I am the irresistible November morning’s frost filled visage;

transfixed in the warp and weft of intricate melodramas

playing out on the grande stage of my front window.

These are days for shuttered, locked in vagaries;

rummage through old closets for winter clothes

and end up finding memories more moth eaten than last year.

A good time to take account of all my dust.

Another hot cup of bean juice,

the moths have been busy this year.

And who put all these memories way in the back here,

with those old boots I swore I’d wear more than once?

But they hurt my feet,

so I didn’t wear them again after the funeral.

I just put them in the back and hoped they’d go away,

but the moths didn’t touch the patent leather,

or those cheap soles that left black marks on the church floor.

Not good footwear if you’re trying to get away from things,

of that I can be certain.

Maybe one more cup and I’ll bag up all this junk for the thrift store.

Be done with it once and for all.

But instead, I just sit and sip dark, bitter liquid,

letting it warm my hands through the mug

and try not to cry as I think of how guilty I feel

Trying to throw away such painful memories.

The hot coffee soothes the pain

of the icy grip on my heart.

Eventually, it will let go

and so will I.

Then it’s out the door with many moth ridden sweaters,

old clothes that will one day just be rags anyways,

and a bunch of other clutter that has long outlived its use,

but I think I have something that will go with those old boots.

They deserve another chance to mark the floor.

Maybe I’ll wear them out for coffee.

HG – 2015

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