Catherine Sheffield
I did not greet Spencer with words,
an open laptop and to-do list was all he needed.
A light bulb reflects off my computer screen like Polaris.
My process is rushed and frantic like a virus,
a stomach bug wrapped in a fever.
Similar to the first day of the flu
waking up with “Karma Chameleon” by the Culture Club
playing on a loop in your head for no reason
as miserable blood rushes to your head
hung over the toilet bowl,
and the fever cooks your brain.
He has a flavored atmosphere:
rich and sensual grind perceived as
a downtown coffee-shop that seeps words
from the brick walls and drips
onto my page where I can shape them how I need.
(Thank you, Spencer, for the word
seep).
I drink creamed oat-milk like oxygen.
Words become as accessible as coffee beans,
and caffeinated air moves my fingers.
Spencer is for people who cry when the wind shifts
and never knew nostalgia
was supposed to be happy.
People who value their tears
so much that they let them fall
freely.
Coffee beans offer sympathy to them and me.
They make themselves malleable,
so we can brew them anyway we need
in order to explain
why we feel.
