"The Sun, and Coffee at Starbucks" (a poem) and "Intrusion"

The Sun, and Coffee at Starbucks






The sun has no door today—but it’s looking for one;
its face is in the window—slightly, it has white bright
knuckles this afternoon—
It drags its Sunday rays along the profile of my face.
The trees outside, from where I sit, across from me
through the window,
are porky-pine green, and beyond those, are peach
colored balconies.
I’m at ‘Starbucks,’ Benavides: the walls have long
stretched out pictures, of a weird coffee pot,
tables, circles, coffee cups, and musical things, things
like horns and notes, and so forth…!
My latte is strong, I like it like that, and I sip on it,
while reading: Shelley, Dylan Thomas, and Plath.

There are no clouds today in Lima, just mist from the
ocean, mixed into the atmosphere, a lazy
lazy mist at that; a stiff and thick kind of mist, like
soup—with slow moving feet, for I can see patches
of blue beyond it, and the sun, the sun I so love
seeping through a porthole or two, still looking for
that door.

#2362 4-27-2008



2) Intrusion
(Poetic Prose, and Confessional Poetry)


When I was a young man, I was likened to terrified fish, an alcoholic that is what I was back then, not how I wanted to be. It is forty-years now. I know now I was better off with no father, thus, I had to row my way to where I am today, through a generation of vipers. Mother was always fearful I’d become nothing more than driftwood, but thick salt kept me up, and I didn’t know (floating just above my neck). My mother and brother were happy (perhaps the only ones) when I somehow slipped through the keyhole and finally opened the shut door and joined the opposite continents. A late bloomer you might say.

#2363 (4-27-2008)