Strong Brew

Perzon

“It’s purzun,” she says
or at least she would, were the Bronx in her socks
instead of the south of London in her jeans. And
she arises, bent, but better, awakening, shaking off the
dusty din of discarded decaffeinated detritus,
the daily drudge of dying promises
of lies he said, of didn’ts he did and
woulds he wouldn’t and love
that never sweetened the bitter taste of his
stale, morning brew.

but it’s a fresh morn, time for
starry starts and ill-spent dreams
time for love in the streets, of
surreptitious tugs and licentious licks
of games of touch and songs
with no words but plenty of woodwinds
and a salty rhythm from just south of the Equator.
in the old days, that baker’s dozen
dime-store brew, she’d settled for the ease
of decaf, taking the tinge of bitterness
from her palate, and praying for the
death-strike of hope, to sleep,
perchance never to dream again.

but it is morn, and the sun is
hot
and three o’clock nightfalls
and waterfalls of passion are insufficient
to dampen her spirits. the lies he
oncetold are deadandgone and
the dragon likes the morning brew
strong
and the dragon don’t need much
sugar
because her tasting touch
is sweet ‘nough, so
she dips in an impudent finger,
touches it to her tongue,
and commands her morning dragon,
“bring it forth. the nights are too long,
and days too hot for weakened brews.
it is time for loving, for remembered
meetings of past embraces, for loves
before first sight, for sex and the
newly single girl. it is morning,
dearest dragon, and the time for
decaf has passed. wake up,
and smell forever.”

and so he shall,
rich of brew, dark of roast
no bitter brew, but chocolate smooth,
with a twist,
right from the Equator,
nigh unto his heart.

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