Grinds and Resins

by Paul Handley

I related my admiration of the ascetics
of the stainless steel French press resting
on our table covered by a blue diamond cloth,
but expressed my preference for clear glass,
so one can judge the precise level
of coffee remaining.  Knowing
there is about one and a third cups left,
that’s a 2:3 ratio with my remaining blueberry pancakes.  
Contemplate its color, appreciating
the dark caramels.  Regard the grounds
bunching at the bottom, crushed by the filter screen.
My breakfast partner nods knowingly.

My mind takes a few steps away
from the table, wondering if as a teenager
sitting on a drab brown, hide-a-bed in couch mode,
in a basement with exposed pipes,
wrapped in asbestos, packing a four foot bong,
made of PVC plumbing pipe,
a can of Stroh’s beer nuzzling my knee.

Could I have foreseen anything like this?
I don’t like either shot as representative,
but of course they are.