The Morning After Inauguration

07/29/2009 § Leave a comment

The newspaper is wet; it was raining this morning.
This cup of coffee, so warm in my hands, came from Bolivia.
Che Guevara died there, in the fall of 1967,
captured, executed, then displayed in a rather Christlike fashion
except without all that glamour. Postmortem and without his cap,
he just looked like a guy who hasn’t slept in days.
He too must’ve tasted this, this excellent cup of coffee, now
so bitter in my mouth, its bitterness hushing me on
for another slow, meaningless day at work,
all the way from Bolivia.

The newspaper is wet. It reads: A Black Man
is the President of U.S.A.; and, on the side: Hundreds
Dead in Gaza. In smudged letters. They lack all authority
of proper news. Ink cannot hold truth; only facts.
A little drop of water sees to that, be it rain,
or a black woman’s tears, or innocent blood shed
somewhere, everywhere, on this planet.
This cup of coffee, this excellent cup of coffee, is
so warm, so bitter, so vital to my petty existence—
it came from Bolivia.


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