Grooving to Buxtehude
grinding my beans
humming in descant
ready to cook,
swinging and swaying
coffee at perc
tap step tap
ready to cook,
morning breathing coffee
my father his grip
is as I hold my cup
shuffle ball change
his fingers mine
my knuckles his
his freckles mine
my hand his fist
grooving to Buxtehude
bounding with Biederbeck
music of the spheres
I’m cooking, Pop.
