I awoke early this morning, darkness everywhere
no sign of the sun being alive today.
As consciousness return, painfully slow
I am aware of the very pungent
yet familiar scent.
It is like the smell of burnt coffee
not to be mistaken
for the more welcomed scent of
the pleasant company of a measured portion of
gently parched Arabica beans.
My mental morning fog
when coupled with one too many late night
camera-less gutter session is not confusing me
when attempting to identify this next cue.
That cue signaled that we were under attack.
The fire alarm, deafening, still affording us
the very narrow window of opportunity to prepare.
Soon the bomb shelter air horn will be triggered
all will have to hunker down into the nearest
bunker awaiting this most recent fear to subside
and through it all the strongest memory to manifest itself
that famous line of Robert Duvall’s
when speaking as per Francis Ford Coppola’s direction
“I love the smell of parched Arabica in the morning.”
But I age myself
this is a younger man’s affair
I should not be here
Oh, the noise of
the choppers approaching, flowing
out of the sunrise upon the horizon
The menacing approach of the
“Flight of the Valkyries”
the loud banging sound of the
give cause for me to be
crawling on my belly, keeping my head down
Another desperate banging sound
my eyes are wide opened now
“This is the management!”
“Open the door!”
I stumble to the kitchen
on my way to the front door
Red hot coffee pot
“Are you in there?”
Yea yea one second!
I grab an oven mitt
place the burnt coffee pot in the sink
Fire alarm whaling away
“Open the door”
I reach the door,
to the stern, worried, relieved
faces of management and neighbors alike
They stood still looking right back at me
This was one foreign war journalist dream that
came much too close to becoming a domestic
I love the idea of The Journalist
loving even more the idea of being
in the safety of right here~