My Coffee and Me on a Two-Lane Highway

Irene Keller

June 7, 2026

A perfect hour with coffee in hand to drive on a two-lane highway 

where oak leaves wave as if to say, “Come this way, into the open

horizon of make-believe where ghosts swing dance to the wind.”

Easy sips of steaming coffee, easy drive along the road where no

neighbor slams the backdoor, yells what the dog did or didn’t do.

As I drive, the warm caffeine awakens my senses to notice, on a 

fence post, a squirrel signaling me with his tail—to follow, to sing   

with him, his friends around collected pecans—afterwards a feast.  

Driving my desired speed, no fear of coffee spills, or danger of two 

semis on both sides of me wanting to squeeze my car into flat metal.

My cup of java and my wheels taking me down the quiet road remind  

me of when my granddad, who always traveled with coffee, driving me 

to a hill country ranch where I could pretend with a stick to brand cattle. 

With the warmth of coffee and the calm along the two-lane road, I enjoy

not seeing red tail-lights, instead, witness white-tailed deer jump fences. 

Coffee getting cold, gas gauge low, time to refuel at the only open store 

on Main Street, then onward with the window down to hear shod hoofs

hit the asphalt as a rider tips her hat at me—once a horsewoman as she.

Fresh hot brew keeps me alert as I drive with lights on to meet a hazy

mist yet free from oncoming lights that make a road seem to disappear. 

Though coffee still hot and the two-lane highway doesn’t end, time to 

return to dull city, as I pass young green corn stalks that look like a

field of kites wanting, waiting to fly, so people would pause to wonder.

Irene Keller, PhD. is a former Texas public educator who can take time to dream, to reflect, to escape urban life while driving on Texas two-lane highways. 

This morning

Herman Sutter

June 7, 2026

I made that coffee you bought

thick scented, slow, dark

strong

and I sat in the kitchen

with the radio on

listening to the world,

waiting for the first cup

I made my lunch

washed a glass

leftover from dinner

and put things away

then finally impatiently 

stole a cup from the still 

dripping pot. Hissing 

in delight. And burning

my lips with the first 

sip.

Thank you.

Herman Sutter (award winning poet/playwright/essayist) is the author of two chapbooks: Stations (Wiseblood Books), and The World Before Grace (Wings Press), as well as “The Sorrowful Mystery of Racism,” St. Anthony Messenger. His work appears in: The Perch, The Ekphrastic Review, The Langdon Review, Touchstone, The Merton Journal, as well as: Texas Poetry Calendar (2021) & By the Light of a Neon Moon (Madville Press, 2019). His recent manuscript A Theology of Need was long listed for the Sexton prize.

Goat Song

Chris Ellery

June 7, 2026

This cup I pour with such delight has made

an epic journey, from the high plateau 

of Ethiopia to mystic cultivation in 

Arabia, from the Red Sea port of Mokha, 

to Turkey, Egypt, Italy, and all of Europe, 

lately to America in time for tea, and now 

my ancient camp pot on the Coleman stove.

I don’t forget your history, bitter bean, 

ground with the tang of ritual and rebellion, 

endowed with essence of desire for solitary 

prayer and independence, and strong 

with love of wisdom discovered deep 

in conversation and coffeehouse communion. 

And I do not forget those happy goats 

who found you first. The world may be at war, 

ever war and strife, but life’s not tragic

altogether. So I honor you, discerning goats!

With choral dance of gladness, I proclaim 

you free—Te absolve!—from dark, 

fallacious centuries of prejudicial guilt 

by slanderous association with 

the dithyrambs of Thespis, strophe and 

antistrophe of Aeschylus, hubris 

and hamartia, bloody recognition 

and reversal. I give you back your satyr 

innocence, ecstatic fellowship 

with Bacchus, bliss-loving Dionysius, 

god of freedom, god of joy. 

You are the archetype, O peerless goat. 

Be not aggrieved by parables, for you

are far superior to sheep in this at least—

that you were first to munch the stimulant

and keep awake in caffeine watchfulness 

through long, dark watches of a dreary night.

Forever revel in ruminant blessedness 

on those ancient hills, those fertile, wild, 

and misty slopes of noble Africa! Let all 

our grinding and our brewing be 

remembrance of your grazing, ever-wise 

and ever-lively goats. So may your bean-

glad boisterous spirits bound in us to wake

us with transforming joy all times we lift 

to grateful lips—day or night, served hot

or cold—a cup, a mug, a glass, a shot. 

Chris Ellery is the author of One Like Silence and five other poetry collections. In the last century, he spent a weekend herding goats in the Alawi mountains of Syria overlooking the Mediterranean Sea and developed intense respect for those free-spirited beasts, just short of considering them his totem animal. 

the valence cafe

Terry Dawson

June 7, 2026

I wake with a valence of zero,

combining with anyone not

an option sans cafe, I

grow more ferrous by the sip

with one cup imbibed, I nearly

morph mafic igneous rock; I

become Rodin’s “the thinker” now

or is it Dorothy’s tin man? with my 

newfound metal, I soon feel fit to 

meddle in everybody’s business

halfway through round two,

a septuagenarian no longer wary

of words perks up — repartee becoming

an option    with a valence of 4

I approach the hatch/front door,

“drag a comb across my head”

in reverence for two dead Beatles

and plunge straight ahead,

prepared to combine or replace

my hydrogen bits — to give a shit

about the atmosphere   I slip

right foot in first before tugging

the balance of my remaining

elements in tow  this may in fact

be a last chance

I get from the git go

to let go and float

all the atoms within me,

letting them mix swiftly

with all the rest 

in this cosmic cafe   “Say, 

how are you?

Me? I’m fine; nice

to meet you, to

greet you, to be

human with you.”

Valence is the number of chemical bonds an atom forms when it creates a molecule.

Terry Dawson is a retired Presbyterian minister and former adjunct faculty member at San Francisco Seminary. He recently relocated to Madison, Connecticut, but resided in Austin, Texas, for over two decades. While there, he produced the multicultural poetry, jazz, and live painting collaborative "Five Voizz Brush," wrote a guest column on faith for the Austin American-Statesman, and co-chaired the Jazz at St. James' committee of St. James' Episcopal Church. His poetry, essays, and fiction have appeared in many print and online journals over the past fifty years. He's authored two full-length collections of verse: the after: poems only a planet could love (Poets' Choice, 2022) and Pursuing the Ruin (Lamar University Literary Press, due out in 2026).