Years ago, if I saw the word ‘coffee’ in a poem
I would groan and shift in my seat
At the tired cliché of a weary writer
Reflecting over a hot beverage, possibly abroad.
But now I, too, am tired like words, lost like sense,
And coffee calls from every side.
From choppy chains to specialist brews,
I buy it, drink it, know it’s too late.
Not many poems of late but here is a little one. And I NEVER post photos of food so here is a part of a recent birthday lunch. It was a bit frozen in the middle but that is January birthdays for you (and the company was good).