There is no point in saying I like my coffee blacker
Than most like it.
I roast it like it
Needs a dash of woodsmoke
Curling
In its flat broke
Burning, scalding
Ten-cent cardboard cups.
And the jazz unfurling in the
Night air
Mingles with its hot mess flair
And the four-inch stiletto
Demands the jazz bassist
To follow its beatings
On the board walk
Down the river dock.
Did you forget? Oh, it's hot
But I walk like it's
No more
Than a brisk-air
Hip-twitch
Dark
Espresso night
And you just might
Notice what's attached to the heels
And forget how the jazz feels
And the coffee tastes
Black or latte.
Oh, it needs a little sugar.
postscript
Black coffee and jazz.