October 22

If my cup of coffee was a tree, then the rings inside of it would mark how many years I’ve been sitting at this table,

Each sip traces the mouthful I’ve tried to write,

and the darkness of each line whispers about the amount of attention I forgot to give it.

Its lip wears the shade of the season – a deep red,

collected in smatterings around its breadth, at random.

If I drink all of it,

perhaps I can build a poem with its remains.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s