When the smell of a new roast

and the itch of grey cotton against my shoulders

stir a tranquility

equivalent to that from

lavender incense.



ironic, obscured,

like a poem held captive between 4 and closing,

where syntax is found inside

something prolific,

like fine coffee grinds

or an early paycheck.


The decaf burns my skin as I

pour an 8 oz to go

and it spills over the side –

I don’t mind all that much.