Grinds and Resins

by Paul Handley

I related my admiration of the ascetics
of the stainless steel French press resting
on our table covered by a blue diamond cloth,
but expressed my preference for clear glass,
so one can judge the precise level
of coffee remaining.  Knowing
there is about one and a third cups left,
that’s a 2:3 ratio with my remaining blueberry pancakes.  
Contemplate its color, appreciating
the dark caramels.  Regard the grounds
bunching at the bottom, crushed by the filter screen.
My breakfast partner nods knowingly.

My mind takes a few steps away
from the table, wondering if as a teenager
sitting on a drab brown, hide-a-bed in couch mode,
in a basement with exposed pipes,
wrapped in asbestos, packing a four foot bong,
made of PVC plumbing pipe,
a can of Stroh’s beer nuzzling my knee.

Could I have foreseen anything like this?
I don’t like either shot as representative,
but of course they are.

The Trick of the Hotel Elevator

by Paul Handley

The elevator in my building
is a magician’s chest.
As the cape doors block me
off from the audience,
I face forward and don’t
make eye contact, so focused am I
on returning the same person upon exit,
which hasn’t happened yet.  I am little
threat to the sorcerer’s powers of transformation.

I feel the camera scoping me,
waiting for a weakness to wink at
the security guard, balefully regarding my
intentions to injure his building,
such as punching a floor button with enough
precision and force to chip out a chunk,
creating a mutant souvenir of this
monument to the hotel occupying the bottom 10 floors.
Its logo glimmers across the city.

Work mode lassos me as I leave
the elevator.  I shed frivolity,
clipping the back of my left ankle as it drops,
and the stench of originality drips
from an elbow as I open the door, to a cubicle maze.
I see the wand waved with a flourish
of ta-da and mockery, then yanked
with theatrical speed back into the elevator.