the bright light of the kitchen, half past four.
I start to write to the poet I prize most:
You're nicer than a slice of buttered toast
sprinkled with cinnamon sugar, even more
exciting than a dark Colombian roast!
You're my dear friend. Pardon my humble boast.
(I send handwritten pages by the score
to the wise young poet who's the best! The most!)
You live 900 miles from the coast.
I just might walk the whole way to your door --
after I finish my dark Colombian roast!
Or maybe you'll come here ... and I’ll play host
in my untidy flat on the third floor
to a guest whose gentle voice I'd welcome most!
I'm pestering the gal who brings the post:
"Where is Elena's letter?" Pity poor
me, as I drink my dark Colombian roast.
(Yours are the words that gladden me the most.)