Drinking coffee from a
baby food jar which held
washing detergent, which
was poured into a clear
bag, which held clothes pins, which
now lie scattered at the
bottom of my camp bin.
This is the kind of
innovation it takes to
camp luxuriously.
This old mokka pot is
out of brewing practice
and I didn’t bring cream.
I lift the steaming jar
up to my nervous lips
anticipating the
black and burning liquid.
This camping chair, melting
snow dripping from the roof
The wind blows through the pines.
And behold, it tastes good.