my coffee is a black blood
that streams down from mountains
high in the echelons of history for their role in
flowing through the hands of the tired, the grimaced,
the overworked farmers
and into the belly of this

one who will possess nothing more than
a passion to be one with them.
a desire to be drinking this coffee
in their shadow,
under their careful preparation,
in their grateful presence.

I will make whatever I can,
perhaps bread,
certainly cookies,
to share with them and demonstrate
that my blood runs thick too,
black and red and white and blue.