Your calloused hands reach out and give to me,

like God reviving one whose almost gone,

a warm blue cup of steaming sanity.

For four quarters you gift me life anon.

your grimy cart: a chariot of heav’n

I stumble wordlessly toward your stand

my heavy lids you find a way to leaven

a drop of life you place into my hand

the burned brew has resurrected me

a singular ingredient unknown,

a final supper brought by only he

my order memorized it has been shown

I know you are a stranger, but its you that I adore

the Adam to my Eve, a sweet concoction that you pour.