J drinks his coffee super hot, and dark black
cowboy coffee I call it.
The kind you drink
on a cold mountain morning
out on the range
you get up off your sleeping roll
in the same clothes you wore
And you sit on a stump, or broken-off log
and sip out of a hot tin cup,
the steam mixing with puffs of condensation
from your mouth
fog still looms low over the ground
but the blue peaks rise above it.
I prefer my clouds as
thin swirls of
to break up the heaviness
of the coffee bean
but that’s just me.
I love that he likes Cowboy coffee
it feels like he
even though we are a generation apart
is connected to my mountain majesty roots
like he was on the front range with me
chuckling at me
while i tried to swallow
mouthfuls of the heavy stuff.
He likes the taste.
I like the warmth.
In another time and space
He would be a seasoned cowpoke
surlier than even Clint Eastwood could
But today he just sips his coffee
and stares at nothing.