No Changing Coffee


Tugging that man out of bed,
before he starts a days work, is
that promising smell of coffee
brewing in the pot.

His hands are calloused, his
clothes dirt stained, aching
bones from climbing ladders
since he was just a boy of
seventeen.

No, you won’t hear him
complain.  He’ll sit down
for break, dig out his thermos,
pour that roasted blend in
the lid. Warmth hits him
inside, when it’s cold outside.

Evening comes, the sun going 
down, he makes his way home.
So many reasons to just go to 
bed.  He’ll grab his favorite 
coffee mug, black flavor taste
just like his heart feels. He’ll
set another pot, ready to just
turn on when morning shines.

Just another day will begin,
and he’ll pull himself out of bed.
Looking forward to the only
thing that hasn’t changed.
The sweet aroma of coffee.

written by donetta sifford 1-10-2013

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2 responses

  1. Thank you very much raj arumugam!! I am glad you enjoyed this one.

  2. ah, I'm reading this poem with my morn cup of coffee (8.15am here now) and this poem is perfect company…The 3rd stanza particularly has a very smooth and 'aromatic' feel about it….not sure now which I enjoyed more this morning – my coffee or this smooth and lovely drink of a poem….

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