rp-ybanez:

—after “The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” by T.S. Eliot

I measure out my life with coffee spoons,
surviving morning after morning mind
and waiting for a dash of moon to bloom.

I fill a filter scoop by scoop with dunes
to spill an hourglass in glass by lines
with Herculean heaps from coffee spoons.

After seconds, the cauldron pot then fumes
and bubbles remedies at least ‘til nine
before the moon waves goodbye for sunbloom.

Stirring an empty cup to sound clinked tunes
of silverware and clay, the music chimes
the emptiness of anxious coffee spoons.

The brew hisses a pop and stops the flume
of Maxwell House—my family waits in line
to pour each cup and dash some cream to bloom.

We drink our draught for caffienated boon
and pull our way through work to crash at night
so I measure my life with coffee spoons
because I want my winking moon to bloom.

-RY

(via aquietjoy)