deepundergroundpoetry.com

Rust

coffee always hits my nose
a moment before my mouth;
dark and warm, the elixir calls
and there are times when
I can almost taste the memories;
my mother’s stoneware cup
always mixed a bit too sweet,
even for the sweetest of my teeth;
the smell of Folger’s coffee,
a bright and earthy contrast
to the thick, floral notes
of her drugstore perfume;
they are indelibly scribed  
upon my patchwork manifest;
I’d have it no other way
Written by LunaGreyhawk
Published
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