Warm coffee

An epigraph and poem suitable for Ridvan,

“O Children of Dust! Tell the rich of the midnight sighing of the poor, lest heedlessness lead them into the path of destruction, and deprive them of the Tree of Wealth…” (Baha’u’llah)

Yesterday, at a downtown café you sat outside with a friend,

drank warm coffee, complained about narcissistic politicians, the coming war,

and the merits of whether fresh ground coffee tasted better dripped or pressed.

After your friend left and before you could hide your nose in a book,

a nameless man, his life worn in layered clothes upon his back,

caught your eye, spoke of the chill in the air and asked for spare change.

You offered coffee and a seat at your table.

Wrapping rough hands around warm coffee he smiled over the rim of a paper cup

and never once asked, if freshly ground coffee tasted better dripped or pressed.

4-21-22