Morning Grind

Dec 12 2019

The smell of fresh ground coffee

intoxicated me

when I was a boy.

Not the bitter brew

forbidden to one so young,

but the heady aroma

that wholly took over

the old A&P.

Which was more a corner store

than today's vast emporia,

with bag boys

and wooden floors

and a mechanical horse

that ran on dimes and quarters.

With the big red grinder

in the coffee aisle

that was fed with Eight O' Clock.

Whole beans, dark and glistening

in the soft overhead light,

redolent

of tropical flowers

fertile soil

mountain air.

The machine was powerful, and loud

and irresistible to boys

who are not big at all,

but small

and ineffectual,

and told not to speak

unless spoken to.

The same smell

I now inhale every morning

in my warm snug kitchen.

Still taking joy

in the small pleasures of daily life.

Still powerless

in a relentless world

that grinds men down.

Hot black coffee, simply made,

unadulterated

with sugar, milk, flavourings;

no sprinkles

no pretentious names.

So, like the child who separates

the peas from the mashed potatoes

so there's no chance they'll touch

I am still a purist.

And the smell is just as addictive.

But the taste is no longer bitter

to my jaded tongue.

Replaced, somehow

by this smooth earthy elixir,

fit for an Aztec god.