better than a lava lamp,
the french press pot atop
the oft-repainted radiator cover
deliberately set there by the window
sill to catch and kindle in
the setting summer sunlight
that pours over the roofs and
distant cathedral's hillock to
splash radiantly into my gaping room
i don't have the angle right just now
for the encompassing view of that hill
and skyline, distant and nearer churches' spires,
intent only on the brownian fluid illumined,
glowing in the fire of that sleepy star
and savoring the elixir's anticipated vigor
my studied hours will soon sorely need,
but i know it's there and descry so for context.
it starts clear but hazy from the boiling tumult
but passes through lager and honey before
the pot is poured full, the roiling grounds
seething dark in the steam as the lid is placed;
by the window it is amber, ocher, golden,
strong tea bathed, suffused through in light.
from the static mass as near the surface
as the strainer will permit, grains precipitate,
floating downward, meandering black stars,
imbuing their essence into the milieu,
each trailing a richer darker wake
adrift in the deep hot cosmos of coffee.
i guessed that when the grains stopped
breaking alone from the caked mass to fall
the infusion would be complete, but they continued
longer than i willed to wait, the promise
of that luminous mahogany liquid too great
a lure to endure long ere acting.
the plunge stroke, as pedants and baristas
call the act, is a grave matter though, and
not to be rashly undertaken, but performed
with reserve, tenderness and determination.
make no mistake! a firm hand starting
slowly as possible to avoid jarring more grains
free: with almost a caress, press...
then steady pressure, steadily push, continuing
--harder if need be but never slake lest
the dense sodden masses' momentum should
swirl them tumbling away-- until the knob is flush
the brewer's alchemy: a great black and tan
the silver disk draining down through the dark ale
to disclose the ebon stout--the same tinged,
frothy head, the same creamy texture promised here,
but piping hot--the plunging sun's rays too spent to penetrate.
it tastes of alchemy too, this enticing bean brew
with its magical molecule that censors "i'm tired"
from my cells' signaling vocabulary;
it tastes, as the song says, like wearing
pajamas at seven in the evening, feet up,
toes splayed. alert refreshed composed, awake.