Poetry and Coffee II

The day had been hot and long. The steaming South American air had robbed the pickers of every last drop of energy. Pintu had deposited his beans in the bin along with the million others. As he sat there leaning against a tree and squinting through his heavy eyelids at the setting sun, one of the other workers began a soliloquy. “Soft and gentle, flowing straight, the sunlight from below, tomorrow waits. Tonight is ours, to lie and love, soft and gentle, our waiting dove.” Pintu’s eyes close as he thinks about home and all that waits for him there.