For Joyce Carol Oates

There are plenty of intercessions we make
And transactions in the commonality of
The day, like the making of a cup of coffee...
Which has the boiler whistle like a train
Might do on its way to Wisconsin or Ontario
And the act of spooning some coffee
The grains fine as the words in a Thomas Wyatt
Sonnet, and the water, a Niagara Falls, a honeymoon
And then the breath upon the steam emanating
From the cup, like mist above a stream in winter
The analogues abound, the invitations to a contract
Of cross reminiscences, of your father, my father
Your mother, my mother, and as I sip the coffee
The morning has pollinated so many memories
That tears come rolling down, and some for regret
Then it is time to leave, the coffee bolted too quickly.