Poem 2

                           The smell of coffee


the Turkish coffee maker

in the tiny Russian kitchen

full of fresh grounds – a dash of pepper – hot water

bubbling and frothing up


his technique was precise and practiced

a ritual worth perfecting


if only he had put such care into his relationships

loneliness would not be his


where does love stagnate?

the bubbles die a slow death

the fragrance turns putrid


the spice and careful concocting

seem too much of an effort


perfection is lost

soured by mistrust and the grinding of bitter feelings


the dregs are left – ground nothing – black

turning to indifference


you began my love affair with coffee

but I don’t know you now