A Morning Cup Of Coffee Poem by Felix Bongjoh

(i)

It stands on a side table
breathing in the world, weaving
thin pads of air over

itself folded up in a cobweb
of smoke. The cup smokes
with nostrils of the world,

the walking chimney standing
standing on flat feet,
whisking a rabbit's tail of smoke,
for I will drink a rabbit

and eat the world of air
from a storm ropy typhoon
wrestling in loops of fisted
jabs flung through a whimpering door.

I eat the nuts and berries
of a brown-reddish sky
to spin in a sky's crawling

whorls and papery plates
of air and beach mist.

(ii)

Why, the cup pauses
to scratch its head crowned
by sharp-handed rays

of gold and yellow sun
landing with small balloons
and skipping bubbles.

In foam and spume,
by a broken sun-lit shore
of a craggy hardcover book

carrying a pebble-gray
back on which it stands,

no longer tottering.
It only peeks
at a vase and oils my face
with soft palms of clouds.

Pomaded with clouds
from a cup of coffee setting sail
in a living room's ship,

a dash to my car, the deck
from which I take off
to drink sky and earth,

sitting in an office's burrow,
every animal holding out
the new oval egg of a cup of coffee.