Sunday Morning Coffee

Life is good. This morning the coffee tastes especially nice. We drink French roast, ground fresh. In this economy it's a luxury, but I'd rather do without almost anything than cut out the premium coffee. Coffee and the newspaper used to be a great team, but the news is always so oriented to the awful that I find myself scanning headlines only. Even that can get a person down.
An old friend named Sheryl Eddins introduced me to fresh-ground coffee. Back in the day, we shared a place in Venice, California, and her coffee of choice was Italian. I finally made it to Italy one year, to Florence, and I spent part of one morning chugalugging espresso. Got so wound up I ran around taking photos of street scenes and never made it to the Duomo.
Today's project is writing a profile of a wonderful old walnut farmer named Ray Pesenti of the Pesenti wine family. I used to dread the interviews of old folks: so much material and so difficult to transcribe. Thanks to my traveling laptop, interviews are a snap now.
Wouldn't it be a fine job, to make a living out of interviewing and writing profiles of the old timers in rural America? Huell Howser (sp?) has my dream job, except I would write the profile as opposed to televising it.
Let's see what to post as today's poetic musing. Why not a summer poem about hopefulness I found on the street one day:

One Hundred Thousand Wishes

what’s this world coming to
kids these days got no respect
I’ve had it up to here with you
don’t you dare mouth off to me
when I was your age
don’t look at me that way
you never talk to me anymore
what did I just say
I’m sick of all of this

look at those boys laughing
racing their bikes
look at them wrestling on the grass
sword fighting with sticks
look at those boys stopping
picking a pair of dandelions
look at them blowing
one hundred thousand wishes
flying on the summer breeze
look at them look at them

Chris Alba (c)2009