I used to like sheepherder coffee,
a cup of grounds in my old enameled pot,
then three cups of water and a fire,
　　
and when it’s hot, boiling into froth,
a half cup of cold water
to bring the grounds to the bottom.
　　
It was strong and bitter and good
as I squatted on the riverbank,
under the great redwoods all those years ago.
　　
Some days, it was nearly all I got.
I was happy with my dog,
and cases of books in my funky truck.
　　
But when I think of that posture now,
I can’t help but think
of Palestinians huddled in their ruins,
　　
the Afghan shepherd with his bleating goats,
the widow weeping, sending off her sons,
the monk who can’t go home.
　　
There are fewer names for coffee
than for love. Squatting, they drink,
thinking, waiting for whatever comes.