Bean of Brown

I love its sharp aroma
the hot steam burble of its talk
the hiss of Expresso
first thing when the dew is still burning
off the chrome

When the Buskers are not weary
and the women frisk
men brisk

I love its heat in its ceramix
like a pool of dark reflection
Blak Magik

and sometimes

(though greatly rare)

a True Live companion
to converse
lively hands full of signature
moves

Shoe tease dipping
while traffic
streams past
and the sun
crawls slowly
across shadows
etched in stone
brick and pavements
voiceless rivers

sketch in my notebooks
of small
poems for no one

Loveless charmer
caught up in the
whirl
of non sequential
burl

Once
fire of passion brewed
like the exlir of soul
wafting heady
poetry

frothing in its
climax
and spilling at its
lip

dribbling down
past the smile
held in place
by the erotic
tenure
of flavour favour