Dragging my weary,
sixty year old butt out of bed,
sleep knuckles under.

Thank the gods it’s Saturday.
Kitchen calls, slippers shush,
shower can wait…

Coffee.

Pop the grinder’s lid,
flip open the cookie jar of oily heaven…

Shit.

Dark thoughts echo in hollow depths.
“Who used the last of the coffee beans?”
“I know who used the last of the coffee beans.”
“I’ll kick his ass
as soon as I get him home
with a fresh bag of beans.”

Lazy bastard.

Winter howls at the door.
Properly attired in marshmallow coat
over my pajamas.

Out the back door.
Milk-soaked moon
hangs heavy in Oreo sky.
Under jet trees, silence shimmers and flows
like Sleeping Bear Dunes
on Lake Michigan shores.

You don’t need me to tell you
what a snowy landscape sounds like.
Or maybe you do.
It’s where vibration goes to die,
smothered under the sifted remains of
dragonfly wings.

I grab the snow shovel
holstered right outside the door.

Scrunch. Shiff.

Scrunch. Shiff.

Scrunch. Shiff.

Slippers squeak; deck wood creaks.
And I’m at the garage door.
Keys rattle and the portal beckons.
Smells comfort.
Oil and gas are permanent guests,
grass long dead still clings,
rust and pine and crumbling concrete,
long past prime.

Her car or mine?
I always park
on the dogleg side
of the driveway,
so it’s easier for her to back out…

Or maybe so she won’t take my car.

Ten minutes and I’m walking into
Caribou Coffee.
It’s a Minnesota thing.

Brain whispers concern:
Will they have my beans?
Like that’s what I should worry about
with this addiction.

Light roast? Why bother?
Poor hot water over
Lake Superior agates
and get a better buzz.

A bean’s true character
is only revealed
through the torment of Dark Roast.