Poetry Friday, The Galilee Hitch-Hiker, Part 3

1939

Baudelaire used to come
to our house and watch
me grind coffee.
That was in 1939
and we lived in the slums
of Tacoma.
My mother would put
the coffee beans in the grinder.
I was a child
and would turn the handle,
pretending that it was
a hurdy-gurdy,
and Baudelaire would pretend
that he was a monkey,
hopping up and down
and holding out
a tin cup.

Not much to report from the Deep Red except for far too much family drama. My family is afraid of everything, from Philip Pullman to leftovers. It's exhausting. I am an alien.