Poem 35: Coffee

My days were filled with coffee;
when my daughter was born, I bought
a thermos. The other day, she asked
if G-G was having fun with all the other
people who have died. We were driving
on Wisdom Way, by the fairgrounds
and the transfer station. Downstairs,
there is a pile of tools. I have a vague
idea where any particular wrench
or replacement stem valve I bought
18 months ago might be. There should
be notes, telling us where all the pipes
lead, which lights the circuit breakers
turn off. A limb dropped from the tree
next door, and fell on our fence.
Today, I sawed it into pieces
and dragged them to the wood pile.
The decaf I'm drinking now comes
from a mug with a life preserver
on it, it reads, "first mate."