A prose poem about a coffee shop and snow

I used to belong to an internet writing group called Poetry Thursday. I was really enjoying it but the owners quit so the group fell apart. On Feb. 15, 2007 we were assigned to write a prose poem. I had no idea what that was, but here is mine about sitting in the coffee shop during an early morning snow.

"Come sit by the fire with me. Sit by the gas flames rising from fake logs. Warm us bright blaze in the dark by the pseudo-bricks as we tip Styrofoam cups with plastic lids, sip black brew browned with cream factory made. Animate brain cells, stir up stiff tongues tropical beans, red and bright when picked by dark hands, traveling on tankers guided by pale hands to bring us warmth and happy thoughts, brown after roasting in mills and bursting to dark beans, trucked by many hands along concrete interstates and asphalt by-ways to loading docks at dark coffee shops. Come sit by the fire with me in the dark, tasting warmth, watching the snow fall on icy lines--pity the bird toes--sending power to heat water piped and purified, dripping hot in the pot held by ethnic hands that fill my cup which warms my nose by the fire where we sit."