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
yesterday.
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
creamer
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
characterize.

But today he just sips his coffee
and stares at nothing.

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