A Simple Task of Living
Americano

A Simple Task of Living

There was always a fitful bed for me,
of coming cinder days, as we both grew brighter.
And I collapsed into each night like falling into a well,
drowning my eyes in case the next day's radiance
became too palpable. Each day, I imagined

that you dreamt of angels that were visiting here
from Heaven on vacation:
they would pass you walking down a green track
in the back country, and smile, and nod as you kept walking
toward Heaven's great green forests. And each night
you would grow nearer to the forests' shadows,
and each morning you would glow a little more,
knowing there was one less day before your rest.

That summer, I grew pale,
gray, and ashen like the edges of Hell itself, knowing
that when you went I would be alone.
But there was morning coffee, and
working in the back yard together on the gardens,
your hair silvered and my legs grown long.

Americano

The barista mumbles, "It's like drinkin' dust," as he makes my americano. Two sips in, I agree:

It's a steam locomotive's gritty ash floating back along the tracks;
It's a lost Kansas crop's death-dust blown into your teeth;
It's foundry heat pulling the taste of labor from your pores.

It's the last thing I have left of Great, and Grand, and Father—
This drink of moving beyond lost hope
toward the next undiscovered watering hole.

Louis Murphy graduated from Metropolitan State University with a B.A. in English and Writing. He currently attends the MFA program at Hamline University, in St. Paul, MN, and lives with his partner, Mariah Heck, and their two bunnies.