SPIT
The coffee bean bit that must have clung
to the mug’s rim, now aswish
in the coffee with which
my mouth’s awash (—like a beached fish
………. flung, returned to the surging ocean’s rising tide—
………. or perhaps like Pinocchio or Geppetto spat
………. from a Moby Dick’s rancid gastric insides—),
the bean bit being a bit of a tactile surprise
to the papillary surface of my unsuspecting tongue (as to
………. the calm piscine milieu of aquamarine—serene,
………. pristine—would be the sudden whale spit spewed
………. unexpected through slick baleen—here cue
………. the flash of yellow and blue
………. as a Dory darts, alarmed,
………. off into depths unseen and
………. disappears in shimmering green, saline
………. as the earlier scene
………. where sad Geppetto’s
………. tear-soaked rag’s wrung)—
since, I admit, I insist on a grind quite fine,
may not in fact be bean at all. I sit
out here in the dark muggy
very buggy outside—(mind
adrift, so as to what mote’s afloat
in my mug I’m blind.)
Author’s Bio
Looking East Over My Shoulder is Jill Jorgenson’s book, now she’s older. She delivers the mail (please don’t call it snail); in Toronto it’s hard when it’s colder.