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Morning Coffee - JD Schwartzman

The seclusion of my beloved

morning coffee.

Its smell bridges the chasm

from imaginary wonder

to this again. The beans

come from Ethiopia,

or Guatemala,

or some other place

I haven’t been.

My voice, frozen

in Maryland winter

succumbs to songs of

white belly sparrows

who began an hour

or two ago. Chirping

serenity interrupted

by a lone piece

of hair, taunting

from the surface

of my mug’s splotchy

patina; the culprit

waiting atop

a little blanket

folded in half.

Precisely where I never

look for him, like

the socks I stuff

in the dresser and

the stairs I run up

by twos, was my beagle’s

blonde hair, rudely

in my morning coffee.

My fiery, broken glare

was soothed by his –

a guiltless mirror,

unlike the one

in my bathroom,

with more water spots

than yesterday; yet

the vacuum of the past

pulls against withered

hands clutching

to our final

moment, slipping

like a tear into

my cold morning coffee.

I eased his veiny legs

in the car seat once

jumped into. Longing

for traffic, I heard him

scoot across peanut butter

leather, nose firmly

in the wild. Perhaps

to enjoy the wind

flopping leathery ears,

the torrent of smells

churning retired

puppy lungs, or the mere

satisfaction that the part

of his friend soon

to be lost, would surely

be filled by a few

pieces of kibble

left in the bowl.


JD Schwartzman is a poet residing in Florida. In his free time away from reading and writing poetry, he is a medical student and aspiring surgeon. He graduated from Duke University, where he studied Biology, Philosophy, and competed on the varsity fencing team. His poetry has been published in StreetLit and his medical school's art magazine, The Script.

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