Poetry
Morning Coffee
As you pick up the terracotta coffee mug
the frothing milk
spills over your French manicured
fingers in unknown revenge
the cinnamon essence
from the hot rim
blasts its erotic flavour
Invades your nostrils
and arouses your entire being
and you wish
with an unknown passion
that you had selected
the milder essence
of mundane chocolate.
You sip your cappachino
with an unending thirst
wipe your scorched fingers
with the handkerchief he had
given you yesterday
and gaze at the incessant
raindrops outside your window
you can almost see his shadow
and hear the symphony
of his beloved piano
echoing in the distance
this painful journey of magical colours
and unimaginable bliss
has a mysterious pattern.
Rummana Chowdhury writes from Toronto, Canada.
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