The seclusion of my beloved
morning coffee.
Its smell bridges the chasm
from imaginary wonder
to this again. The beans
come from Ethiopia,
or Guatemala,
or some other place
I haven’t been.
My voice, frozen
in Maryland winter
succumbs to songs of
white belly sparrows
who began an hour
or two ago. Chirping
serenity interrupted
by a lone piece
of hair, taunting
from the surface
of my mug’s splotchy
patina; the culprit
waiting atop
a little blanket
folded in half.
Precisely where I never
look for him, like
the socks I stuff
in the dresser and
the stairs I run up
by twos, was my beagle’s
blonde hair, rudely
in my morning coffee.
My fiery, broken glare
was soothed by his –
a guiltless mirror,
unlike the one
in my bathroom,
with more water spots
than yesterday; yet
the vacuum of the past
pulls against withered
hands clutching
to our final
moment, slipping
like a tear into
my cold morning coffee.
I eased his veiny legs
in the car seat once
jumped into. Longing
for traffic, I heard him
scoot across peanut butter
leather, nose firmly
in the wild. Perhaps
to enjoy the wind
flopping leathery ears,
the torrent of smells
churning retired
puppy lungs, or the mere
satisfaction that the part
of his friend soon
to be lost, would surely
be filled by a few
pieces of kibble
left in the bowl.
JD Schwartzman is a poet residing in Florida. In his free time away from reading and writing poetry, he is a medical student and aspiring surgeon. He graduated from Duke University, where he studied Biology, Philosophy, and competed on the varsity fencing team. His poetry has been published in StreetLit and his medical school's art magazine, The Script.
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