Wednesday, May 30, 2012

Coffee Mom

Coffee Mom

A spoon and a cup,
And a loud tinker,
Right before light sheathes,
Fall over the room,
As the shades are drawn.

Honed by Iraq’s sun,
Well-browned, soft skin,
Shielding curvy hands,
Begin execution.

Morning tasks are starting.

You stir the coffee,
Then drain the cup,
The coffee beans recalling,
You to the desert.

The kitchen soon quiets,
As you leave the room.

When rapidly your heels click,
Through the area,
Forcefully the noise returns.

The shutters now closing,
The house, now, starts dying.

An empty cup and saucer rest by the sink.

We know you have gone to work.

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