I had this dream.
A longing. A thirst.
I would go to the Pacific Northwest
And live among the tall trees.
Wake to cedar and coffee,
Fish for salmon,
Create.
I would learn from the Chinook,
Keep my mythos close to me,
Prosper from the green land,
Take life as pleasure.
I even learned their Trade Jargon,
The Chinook Wau-wau so much the
Creole of the Pacific Northwest.
I am called there but
It is a battle upstream
And I am exhausted,
Humpbacked,
Old.
I am too busy working to spawn.
Listen to me.
As we sit here across this table,
As I decide what to wear,
Think about how long my day will feel,
Taste the dry breakfast I eat of need
And not desire,
I sip the strong splendor;
My salvation in a cup,
My blessed Skookum.
As I listen to you drone—
Your day, our life,
How good it all is—
All I want to say is
Halo Wau-wau, Muckamuck Kaupy:
“Shut Up and Drink the Coffee.”
I had written this poem for one purpose: to win a year’s supply of coffee. And I did. But, after the publication of Skookum, I began to get emails. Phone calls. Concern. How are you? I didn’t know it was that bad. Are you getting a divorce? Because, it would seem, people cannot fathom a poem that isn’t fiction. (The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea. In a beautiful pea-green boat.) I asked them, did they think Hotel California was nonfiction? Did they think Don Henley and Glenn Frey were really trapped in a Satanic hotel? And my marriage was just fine, thank you.
And so was my year’s supply of Raven’s Brew Coffee.
Adam Byrn Tritt 