Black Coffee

You would think she felt it
the way she melts syllables into song
tip toeing on her tongue
losing their balance on the rim then
falling on to her audience
they call her black
because she has skin like scrolls
with no more room to write
wrongs, but she keeps finding places
like the lips of a gutter
she sips coffee without cream or sugar
waiting on this feeling
to walk through the door
and it will, but it won't take it's shoes off
tracking mud all through her home
on her raw knees
scrubbing
the paper clean

French Kissing

Translating a foreign tongue.