Coffee displaces food
for a few more hours,
like a story stopping
bedtime's commencement
sleep.
It's meant to take
both resources
from the body.
A hot shunt
that bunts
and prevents
real hits.
I find myself
confused
by a mixed
baseball metaphor,
seeing red,
like the drunk
matador, on the cusp
of an insight
that continues to escape
the sword.
Spare the bull.
In a land that only persists
after the struck silver
struck out,
shoot fate
ask questions later.
There will never be
coffee shrubs
on these hills.
At least not until
the Great Basin
fills back up
with inland sea.
And none of these bodies
can expect
to see
that
outside of
eventual
hungry caffeine dreams.
Roman Ryan 