How Much I Wish I'd Won

Coffee, black, coin.
Coffee.
You smelled like it the day you first kissed me.
I hate the smell of coffee, but I loved that kiss.
I think I've replayed it in my mind about fifty billion times,
Maybe sixty.
I know you do poetry readings at coffee houses.
That was probably it.
You drink coffee, too, even though you're Mormon.
I hate it, but I love you.
Black.
The color of your leather jacket that you left at my house
So that you could have an excuse to come back and get it.
I was wearing it already when you came back,
Looked through the window, saw, laughed.

“You can keep it for a couple days, if you're that cold,”
You said, smiling.
Coin.
You were so excited, a limited edition.
I was having a bad day and didn't want to hear
About your god--mn coin.

“Come with me,” you pleaded, “Come.
It's going to be worth a lot of money.”
You were dead not long afterwards,
Crushed in your already beat-up Jeep
On the highway,
The coin in the pocket of your black jacket,
Coffee spilled on the empty passenger seat.