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Trains Coffee Women
By M.C. St. John
QuailBellMagazine.com
Cups of coffee exhaust me now.
Yawn at the thought of train rides to Lakeview Gold Coast Pilsen Bridgeport Hyde Park for women who speak in tongues polish you like good silver for the curio cabinet (Ah, this long serving spoon here? It was a steal from Lincoln Square good make strong handle dirt cheap) To feel her hips on knees her face between fingers her teeth under tongue is a string of sin to you. To know every sugar packet ripped every careful drop of cream is tallied and labeled as you. To think every stop on the blue red purple orange green pink brown yellow lines is another story from another woman of you. Coffee Trains Women Women Coffee Trains Trains Coffee Women… I’m tired of it. Sweet as Love Hot as Hell Black as Death—Please Turks, keep your proverb I will French-press my bitter blend for bed alone save for Sherwood and his grotesques the rumble of the train as thunder from a receding storm I refuse to ride again. My time is my time my stories my stories in my room for my nights. Granted, the words are love letters cast into a void-- but I will fill it (books cups dreams fears spoons notes sighs pens trash) as I see fit. This spoon here? Gouged with scars from wild meals that no soft cloth can erase and thank god for small miracles No running away with any dishes any time soon unless you count the coffee saucer on the writing desk.
#Unreal #Poem #ValentinesDay #Women #Coffee #Trains #Stories
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