| 翔孜 |
2012-06-02 10:08 |
- I used to like sheepherder coffee,
- a cup of grounds in my old enameled pot,
- then three cups of water and a fire,
- and when it's hot, boiling into froth,
- a half cup of cold water
- to bring the grounds to the bottom.
- It was strong and bitter and good
- as I squatted on the riverbank,
- under the great redwoods, all those years ago.
- Some days, it was nearly all I got.
- I was happy with my dog,
- and cases of books in my funky truck.
- But when I think of that posture now,
- I can't help but think
- of Palestinians huddled in their ruins,
- the Afghan shepherd with his bleating goats,
- the widow weeping, sending off her sons,
- the an monk who can't go home.
- There are fewer names for coffee
- than for love. Squatting, they drink,
- thinking, waiting for whatever comes
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