Fred Aiken Writing

when i signed up to work at a coffee roastery,
no one told me how much dust there would be,
how much green coffee dust would be kicked up in the air,
thick and unavoidable, like pollen clogging up my
nostrils and throat,
coating my glasses to the point where i can barely see
at the end of the work day,
nor did anyone mention how much green coffee smells
like morning dew percolating in the dawn hours
of a pink sky nurturing jasmine flowers and rosey bushes of berries
being carried down the hillside

thrown into an industrial roaster and cooked to a baked aroma
of peppercorns simmering in yeast,
the aroma catches in the back of my throat,
as i wipe my glasses clean, 
so hopefully i can see my way home