Staring into the black pool abyss
my face is an image of distorted want
feeling the warmth rising to my cheeks
inhaling the odours, fruits from Africa.
Teasing steam rises from the cup
the liquid too hot for my mouth
I settle for content of inhalation
humid vapours of the roasted bean.
Farmers of Burundi caring for plantation
hands pick the red fruits for extraction
the green bean from the pulp
Hamburg bound to me to purchase.
Roasted to a brown, not too dark
ground coarse for a plunger
measured by spoon, water boiled
too slow passing moments of reflection.
Then, my first sip!
