Percolator, I like the way you think
   all whoosh and rattle and thump

and making much from little—
   measured gush of well water,

a few scoops of ground beans,
   a little current of electricity—

your fragrant thoughts wafting
   through the house, drawing us

holding our empty cups, and saying,
    Fill me, tell me all you know

of coffee’s equatorial forests,
   of beginnings and of last drops.

Tell me of emptying and filling,
    of memory rising like aroma.