The Taste of Coffee

The bedroom shutters
are closed
and we are trapped
in the sheets,
and eyes drifting.
We are silent,
your head nestled
on my shoulder,
and I look up to see
the bright Sunday sun
insinuating itself
through the window slats.

It is no longer
the midnight moon
that once
hovered over us,
and I wonder
if you remember
when we wrapped
ourselves in sand
on the beach
at Malibu,
until you say,

“Do you realize
that our lovemaking
is predicated
on the taste
of coffee -–
no longer
of wine?”

Don Cadwallader

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