coffee cup kiss
As the early coffee lid
waits for its glossed kiss,
a mind’s sigh prepares to rid
her crowns with a rinse.
A drive home from school
where her coffee cups danced
mom sped past road rules,
my little eyes entranced.
A stoplight’s bright hue
only seen on her cups’ rims
some dry and some new,
some filled to the very brim
with warm sips to share,
it was those that I loved most
giddy dreams of flair
and rosy tones I might boast.
My mother’s cafe gift
gave two kinds of stain
lips in a lovely lift
smiles veiled in disdain.
Her toothbrush caked in wine
between shades of the season,
with a neck hugged by time,
grown and grounded with reason.
I would now set mine
snug beside her tower,
my ginger smudge lined
light, a sailing mayflower.
From borrowed to bought,
the stained glass grew thicker
as my model thought
steers from silent snickers.
One hundred sixty degrees,
I had set the kettle,
pinkies lift as desired decrees
are starting to settle.
I brush, scrubbing and hoping,
the tainted lace might unveil,
through its stripped dripping coating,
my estate’s pristine bright grail,
waiting to be crowned again tomorrow.
prior versions:
08.13.2023: a kiss on the brush and coffee cups too 1.1
