bloom

get up and say a prayer. drag these 50 year bones to the kitchen. pull the bag of beans out of the freezer and and grind them by hand while the tea kettle fires water to a boil. memories begin to percolate in my styled bed head. the whistle. the first splash into the ceramic cone lined with filter is to let her bloom over the mason jar. the thoughts are beginning to breathe. images of new england and chicago and the road between them. clockwise over the grounds and feelings are bubbling up now. long slow exhalations. it’s between four thirty and five. the frothy brown liquid is ready. deep blue yosemite mug. pull my hood over my head, open the sliding glass door and walk out into the dawn. i have to leave the past behind or it will kill me. just listen to the morning birds. just watch the sky fill with light.

#katyamills

morning hustle

this morning they are hoping for some change standing outside the seven elevens the circle k’s the am pm’s, shifting and huddled and made it through the night. maybe a coffee and a biscuit if you can. a word or a sign or a forlorn face to get a couple quarters. sometimes a hard silence and barefoot says enough. a little kid who cares asks his mommy can we help that one over there? some small gratitude, hot liquid behind paper, warms the hands and face, expressions melt into a blank stare. worries momentarily at bay. eyes open to the day. find your hustle or your doomed.