I’m having a little difficulty with the rhythm of the final lines, but it’s worth sharing at this point.
The eye of my coffee cup stares at me.
Columbian farmers peer out of inky liquid.
Buyers bought these beans to profit from
our concentrated wealth, our insatiable desire.
How many hands dried it, bagged it, moved it
to warehouses? To docks? To ships through ports?
Even here, where processes reverse, where bags
leave pallets like children from orphanages:
once again care and love infuse the beans.
Pallets become small roasted batches. Batches
become a collection of one-pound bags, sold
to households...To me, where the eye of my coffee
asks, "Is this the best way to show love? Is this
the best way to transfer wealth? To care for
our planet? Where will your ephemeral concern
land next? What will I need to do next week
to satisfy you? How may I please you,
master?
