This is one hot Monday - New poem: Coffee: The Eighth Wonder of the World

Scott and I had a delicious Scallop dinner. Scallops were on sale - $4 off per pound - at the Giant, so I bought extras so I could have another meal for lunch the morrow.

Then we went for a walk around our hilly neighborhood, sweating profusely. But you know what? It feels great to sweat. When I was on lithium, I know, I know, I've probly told you this a million times, I barely sweated atall, probly indicating kidney ruination.

Told Scott, who's off tonite, we'd eat at 6 pm. But, no, I was in my upstairs office, with the fan blasting on my hot body, working on a poem about coffee I promised myself I'd write.

Watched a film on Netflix today called An Amish Murder. Full of nice surprises and gory female bodies that weren't too sickening. It starred Neve Campbell, a famous actress, who I've never heard of.

I posted the Coffee Poem on FB and haven't gotten a single comment. Hold on! Lemme go check. My life is held in the balance.

Ah, thank you Patrick Cox!

You know what? I'm too scared to read my coffee poem.

YOU read it and tell me what you think. Okay, Ezra.... Sapphos.... and Emily?

COFFEE:  The Eighth Wonder of the World

Time buries all good things

The Great Pyramid of Giza

The Hanging Gardens of Babylon

The Colossus of Rhodes

The Seven Wonders of

The Western World

Once we celebrated these

marvels, saddling ourselves

on the camel or sailing in

colorful ships to stand

faces aloft before the

Colossus of Rhodes, the

Sun God, who saved our

fair city from the pillage

of the barbarian.

I have beseeched the

gods, and I am only here

for a little while, to add an

Eighth Wonder, an elixir

called by various names.

The vehicle of my epoch is

called “car.” Those who

drive them are often seen

drinking plastic bottles

filled with water or

paper cups of coffee

held in the hand, sipping

from a tiny blow hole,

the earthen-brown liquid

shimmering inside.

I drive through town

sipping from a tall

blue china mug with

a fleur-de-lis

pattern, it is warm

in my hand, as I take

tiny hot sips and

then it begins.

The red light glows

like fresh cherries

swaying on the tree,

the man smoking in the car next

to me is a film noir idol,

escaping the Nazis. I

wish him godspeed.

And I, the girl in the

mirror with the Hungarian

eyes, have fallen in love

with the world, one sweet

bite at a time.