You, me and a pot of coffee

Coffee, Tea or Rust

We met under a weeping willow,

Near the banks of a muddy river.

You didn’t drink coffee,

Said cafés were loud and smoky.

Didn’t drive either,

Until I taught you in my rusty 1970 Super Beetle.

You sent me black tea from Africa in a wooden box

And Batiks of women hauling water in pots and babies on their backs

I was up all night making prints in the darkroom

And imitating Plath in my journals.

You studied biology and anatomy

Said we’re all just cells

You showed me the cadaver from the medical lab

And paced the halls of the hospital in 48 hour shifts.

Medicine, you said is Voodoo

As you cut obituaries out of the paper as if you were 80

Your cousin says “rust never sleeps”

As we eye the underside of our old Honda

Holding our patch and spray paint.

But the living room floor is strewn with toys

I dip colored fabric into hot wax

Carry a baby in a front sling

Drink decaf lattes with a shot of vanilla.

Now the kitchen table is hidden under medical journals

and watercolor paper, Report cards and glitter.

We drink large mugs of coffee every morning

From a French press,

Whole bean and freshly ground.

And I get teas in pretty tins for Christmas,

Herbal and fragrant.

We kiss in front of the stove.

The kettle whistles.