another poem with coffee in it

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Today I made coffee

as my grandfather showed

me. Heartily boiling the loose grounds 

in a small sauce pan and 

pouring it through a strainer. 

My son still sleeping.

The key is to let a crust

form that you then puncture

and stir. And to let it 

steep before drinking.

I can still picture him in his patterned robe-

the belt tied below his belly-

a smile - his kitchen perfectly

set up like a doll house. As he explained

the nuances to me. 

When he showed me, though too young to

even drink coffee, I marveled

at his morning routine, a secret,

it seemed, just for me. 

June 2015