It Comes Down To Beans

I sip my joe,
-not french roast-
now it's columbian blends
with my freedom toast; then I recall
that Juan sells more than beans-
futility smells like coffee.

I spread my toast
while I watch CNN,
or the local news-MSNBC if it's LIVE-
everyone accounts a common story
with alternate takes on the end.
Inbetween bites, over sips I learn

the world has turned
orange as I slept;
lines have been dug in sand,
last cards dealt in dead-men's hands-
unconcious notes on my sports page
make me wonder who will be left to read
the memoirs of a post-humous poet.

1 comment:

writerwoman said...

This poem really makes me feel like I know you. I like how it takes common acts and makes them poetic.

I wanted to mention that I love the way you phrased your Intrests on your profile page.

Bye for now,


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