You breathe in.
A kiss:
how do you take
your coffee?

I prefer it sweet
and warm
against my lips.

I breathe in.
A story:
coffee grinds pour out
into wet garden soil,
later staining the clothes of my
kneading daughter.

She prefers water to coffee,
sober and clean,
though
studying dribbling coffee like
a drip of morphine.

How do you take
your coffee?
I reply.
A revelation:
most mornings I make it fresh,
but the *** brewed overnight
somehow tastes sweet.

The umbrella is by the door,
still coiled up and dry,
save for dust droplets.
I swear, the last time
I moved it from its resting place
it was heavier than before,
absorbing stagnant clouds
and exhaling anticipation.

We both sigh.
I count the raindrops that do not come,
the flowers’ dying petals
an upturned flag on the mailbox.
There are letters to send;
the postman should be here
soon.

I curse my arthritis
before the weather;
I have to hold my breath
when I climb upstairs.

Petrichor is at the door.
I am playing an outdated forecast,
watching the clouds rolling in.