What were you trying to say
from down the dry well
of the German coffee maker?
A brusque “guten Morgan”
unworthy of the finesse required
to defeat the hinged plastic lid,
“bugger off mate” belying
the English taste for tea,
begging bus fare for the Silk Road
transparent even without a bracing first cup.
A caution, then?
Don’t leave bags unattended,
know the warning signs of stroke,
sleep like a baby
with two-step authentication?
Choirmaster alone in the apse,
dwarfed by vaulting cathedral walls
soaring seamless into heavenly gloom,
where I hover on high, indifferent
god commanding flood water, bestowing
the random fly of mercy, deigning
to lower a spoon of salvation
while you weave a gossamer chorale, perhaps,
working the tiny shuttles your batons.