Coffee, water, wine

Coffee, water, wine --
so my days unfold in this drowsy pattern.
A lift, a drop, a cleansing,
each worthwhile day follows the arc of a tale...
I am grateful for each
unamerican pause in the hours.

Random streetcorners in goodmorning Manhattan
never knew sleep, and neither did I;
I wandered from cup to cup,
closing my hands around it like
the first precious discovery of fire.

Wine stained my hair and fingers
the few times I felt Jewish enough to dance.
Somehow, California made sense.
One day, daughters will catch a glimpse and murmur,
Mother had an adventure,
and you will laugh, my dear, because
we live behind closed doors.

But the water is different;
it flows in and out and through,
making and breaking and wasting.
The one I so frequently neglect,
I need the most.

When I am wandering slowly from this world,
which one of these will you give me?
To choose is to say so much of how you loved...

You have always loved me well.