Tasting Perfection

Coffee, of course; the dense, rich, dark of beans
roasted and ground, the best advertisement
for any bar that’s learned the art through teens
of years devoted to the perfect scent—
that taste, the lure that tugs me from the street,
queueing and catching the barista’s eye.
The pressured hiss of it, the ramped-up heat,
all senses rolled in one to justify
some time sliced from the day. Cupped in my hands,
the concentrated essence of pure bliss,
smelling as only coffee can; who understands
the complex formulations of all this—
     the social bond, the heady, shared sensation,
     the caffeine hit, the sweet gratification?


If you have any thoughts about this poem, D.A. Prince  would be pleased to hear them