the odor of coffee robbed her of all free will.
She followed its siren call to the kitchen.
It kicked her in the teeth and she arose to the calling.
Her grandmother often looked skyward like that
as she stirred her morning coffee,
the spoon clanging against the side of a mug,
purloined from the San Francisco jail,
the spoon ringing in the morning with victory.
The brown towhees answered with a one note song,
hopped over the lintel to peck the toast crumbs
scattered at her feet.
4/23. (my extra free write from the NarrativeMethod.com prompt).
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