Your calloused hands reach out and give to me,
like God reviving one whose almost gone,
a warm blue cup of steaming sanity.
For four quarters you gift me life anon.
your grimy cart: a chariot of heav’n
I stumble wordlessly toward your stand
my heavy lids you find a way to leaven
a drop of life you place into my hand
the burned brew has resurrected me
a singular ingredient unknown,
a final supper brought by only he
my order memorized it has been shown
I know you are a stranger, but its you that I adore
the Adam to my Eve, a sweet concoction that you pour.