The following is inspired by the Chris Ellis poem of previous postings. I was at first most concerned with sound work as that is what at first drew me to Ellis' verse; somehow the sense followed. "Chasing the Dragon" is my tentative title, in homage to Ellis' "Finding the Dragon," and as I was also interested in the idea of addiction, the evocation of an opium den pleased me.
Coffee is percolating; clouds
of grounds infest the festive
waters in the press. I have
ground the beans and boiled
the water, measured, poured,
and waited. The silty silky-brown
scent of a dense, humid clime assaults
the anxious senses as I pace the
square squat rented rooms. The
drowsy feline seems to pay me no
mind as I will the elapse of minutes,
the evisceration of time until my
morning dew settles in a tacky mug,
unfit for ambrosia. Dust motes
tangle in the sunlight, vying for the
thrill of not landing first, basking in
being, rebelling as they float beyond
dictates of space, time, or gravity.
The cat has noticed them, though,
as the tense muscles in her hind legs
attest, watching, waiting for them to pose
more of a threat to her slumber. My life
quickens anew as the caffeinated
brew begins its dirty work.
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