Poetry by Morgan Driscoll
and in between the tropics
on the darker continents ignored
or mostly ignored in the places
where the latte’s poured,
the coffee cherries, picked and sorted,
prepped to dry,
lie on endless tables, open meshed and raised,
placed by hands rarely asked their age
paid at almost $2.00 per day
And now in burlap bags,
twine tightened to a mountain ass,
splattered with mud, and puddled sun
as rains pass late
in November days;
now as bags of beans
descending to be milled
then piled into cargo holds
spilled green into the roaster plants
then ground and steamed into my Venti Drip.
I toss the tattooed teen my change; an almost $2.00 tip.
No rock that falls from space exploding,
frictioned in the vanished air.
No child’s foot in slippers soft,
brushed along the fireflies.
No panicked mob that runs to ruin,
or fallen flower pulled from a lapel.
No cinema, no sin,
this just in:
A man wipes his spectacles;
another day begins.