I have tried to learn. To drink my coffee black.
Unadulterated, the way I like my whisky,
my women, my music. Hard. Straight.
There’s power in that simplicity, I believe.
It is a declaration that life offers enough
even in its simplest things.
But there is part of me to the manor born
who wallows in the extras. A little fluff.
Richness. where the simple
is not enough. Not Margarine. Butter.
Not milk. Cream. A bit of flounce.
Flowers on the table.
Good luck understanding
when Oscar WIlde will show up,
or when the pilgrim arrives.
I never know myself.
It leaves me equally uncomfortable
in the company of riches and in poverty.
As I age, the pilgrim shows up
more often. A Colonial Age Buddhist Christian monk,
wielding simple colors,
but despite his best, unable
to take his coffee black.
About this Poem
Yeah, this one just showed up. I had no intention of writing it. But the first cup of coffee hit me and when you are in a period of self examination, everything has meaning.