POEMS  

AJMER RODE

 

 

Coffee in A Clear Glass Mug

 

It was the first time

I made coffee in a clear glass mug.

It was fun

and a bargain.

The grey coffee beans I bought

were absolutely fresh,

fragrant,

and cheap.

I poured the boiling water with all

its bubbles, sounds, and hisses

into the mug.

No color yet.

 

I put in a sugar cube

and couldn't resist watching

the cube slowly dissolve and turn

into an irregular shape.

Sweetness traveled

to every molecule of water without

muddying it,

like an affectionate touch of

a child's hand traveling to every

corner of grandfather's soul.

It was beautiful.

 

I dropped in a few beans of

roasted coffee.

Light brown color emerged,

turning slightly darker around

the beans.

To my delight a display of

grey shades began. The infinite

variety of shades between

black and white fascinated me.

 

A stem of color rose in

the centre, branching irregularly

here and there.

There were shapes like flowers,

and thick dots like coffee fruit.

It was indeed a branch of

Arabian coffee with flowers

and seeds.

 

Soon more color rose from

the bottom, adding richness and

expression to the plant.

I added a few drops of rum at the

side to make it a coffee royal.

The plant trembled, and

strangely enough

it now looked like a human figure

with reed thin legs,

a loin cloth, no shirt and no waist.

Was it a coffee picker

from India or somewhere?

It indeed was a coffee picker

(who can't afford to drink coffee with

a figure standing in it but thanks to his

hard labor I can)

 

Without stirring

I had a small sip from the mug,

the coffee picker was still there

although slightly thinner. After

another sip the figure was

still recognizable.

 

Shall I swallow it?

Why not. I smiled.

If those burger makers can make

baby faces on the burgers and then

lure my children to eat them, why not?

Children, after all, are much more

tender hearted.

 

the thought suddenly made me upset.

What are they doing to our children?

I crushed the empty burger box

sitting in front of me on the table

and threw it on the ground and

trampled on it.

 

With my anger lessened

I came back to the table

and picked the coffee mug.

What am I doing to the coffee grower?

 

A sudden numbness overtook

my hand.

The coffee mug dropped

making small rivulets

on the table. 

  

POEMS