Coffee
Shari O'Brien
I inhale the steam as it floats
from the shiny black pool of coffee,
and hope the rich vapors will decongest
my clogged and cluttered head.
As I take a bittersweet sip
from the thick ceramic mug,
I think of the pairs of hands it took
to make this drink:
those of the Peruvian farmer and his sons
in a fog-hugged plantation
Where the Andes kiss the clouds,
And the trucker, who, like me,
Must caffeinate himself to work.
And who stays awake
By singing out loud to the radio,
And the packer with brown-skinned fingers
Who has touches so much coffee
that its smell can't be scrubbed from her skin,
and of the lanky kid with the crooked grin
who puts himself through school
by scooping from bins lustrous beans to grind and concoct
into House Latte and Brew of the Day
for the regulars through whose veins it flows
like ink through pens.
