COFFEE

by Philip Miller

What brings us round
and also around
the spot where the pot
is set,
where I believe
we first met
gabbing over coffee,
hard
for bosses to object to
needing as they do
well-wired workers,
but as we slipped,
our eyes let
something slip
out,
and we took each other
in, quickly,
and quickly, we were
round the bend
toward caf� amour.
Our fellow workers
shook their heads,
watched us locked eye to eye
fortified with a liquor
hot and black and rich
though bitter around the edges,
that would keep us up
wandering streets
looking for all night coffee houses
where jazz cd's tweedled bitter-sweet
as sugared coffee, and the air smelled
of mud, joe, java-
our cup of tea-
unromantic potion
of those who make love
with their eyes open
and remember the small details
the morning after
over a fresh, steaming cup of coffee.