Wednesday, August 19, 2009

 

Poetry Calvacade 2009: Poem 14


French Press

I lie in bed, wide awake
An echo of my mother
Says I must get up, get busy,
But for now I lay still.

Our coffee was terrible, even
With a press and good beans
Until we forgot it one morning
And left it to steep.

Hulitt, my teacher,
He calls it brooding
You can't write a sermon
All in a rush.

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