I'm not entirely sure but I'm fairly convinced that I may have invented the poetry sequel. Don't look too deeply into that, just take my word for it.
On a side-note: I have a confession to make. Most of the poems you read on The Diary of the Merchant Boy is B-sides. This is not my favorite stuff and I'm sorry.
You're incredibly important to me but so is eating and lots of publications consider any poem on a blog as 'previously published'. They don't like 'previously published'. I hope that you'll be able to read some of my favorite stuff in magazines at some point but until then, there is only this blog.
I hope you like this stuff even though it's not my best. Here is the poetry sequel. Somebody oughta say 'amen'.
the coffee grinder woke me-
she was already awake
in her robe in her kitchen.
The whole kitchen smelled like arabica.
she drinks good coffee
she wouldn’t look over the top of that coffee mug-
she just kind of bit the corner
of her bottom lip in that way she does.
her first words: “I’m old enough
to be your mother”
“No, you’re not”
“You don’t know how old I am”
“That’s fine, because I don’t care”
Her hands gravitated to that slightest, cutest,
softness of her belly.
“She’s prettier than me. And younger. I looked her up
on my daughter’s Facebook.”
She re-filled her coffee mug- she drinks her coffee black
‘like the soles of my come-fuck-me heels’, she likes to joke.
“Lots of women wear beauty like clothing- but you-
you walk in it; gather it around you and let it chase after you”
“You’re too young for me.”
“You’re too old to know I don’t deserve you.”
She snatched up all her hair- that she insists feels like straw-
and rubberbanded it without a thought
and floated over to fill up that mug.
“we should go out for coffee”
“What’s wrong with my coffee?”
“There’s a whole lot more out there than
drinking your coffee black.”
She looked up at me over the top of that coffee mug.