3-02-2009 At least he didn’t start singing a song from that Broadway musical about gangsters

The dawn illuminates a dark, potbell-
ied votive sputtering benedictions through
its transubstantiating throat. As el-
ements hiss, steaming liquid flows into

the holy vessel. Cracks transverse the rim -
a perfect match for his imperfect smile.
He sips. The lords and crown ruled realms are trem-
bling, lost like shifts of silt that can’t defile

his constant sea of ritual. Without
the sacred smell of coffee, would suns rise?
Would fate listen to what a frothing spout
of milk and bobbing sugar might advise?

Foolish intent is all man has to charm
uncompassed awe an inch beyond his arms.