Grandpa’s Coffee
I see him, and his coffee.
The coffee as dark as a night with no moon.
And him, with his hair as gray as fog on a gloomy Monday.
The coffee so bitter and him so sweet. I see him and
his shoes, as white as could be.
His pants as blue as the Atlantic Ocean, and his
shirt like a gloomy Decalet Beach.
No comments:
Post a Comment