Tuesday, October 2, 2012

10PM Coffee

I'm going to make myself,
The perfect cup of coffee.
I measure the milk,
Set it to boil.
I leave a little in the cup.
Precisely a little.
Not a smidgen, not a thimbleful,
Somewhere in between,
The two.
I smother it with coffee.
Two tea spoons.
It's a two teaspoon,
Kind of a night.
One spoon of sugar.
I hold it over the cup.
Frozen with something.
I shouldn't, but then again.
In it goes.
I check the milk.
Not boiling yet.
I choose a spoon carefully.
It's an art you see.
Picking the spoon that's,
Ready for the job at hand.
As I whip it around the cup,
Turning all within to froth,
I'm not thinking of you.
Not at all.
I stare out at the night.
At all the ugly buildings,
Surrounding me like,
A mob at a lynching.
I watch an old hawk,
Fighting against his age.
He's too blind to see,
The sun set hours ago.
The milk is boiling now.
It hisses at me,
Like a petulant child.
I burn my finger,
As I take it down.
Of course I do.
Because I'm making coffee,
While not thinking of you.

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