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Commercialism and Coffee


First Cup Of Coffee


The television people scooped

Brown crystalline powder

Into a white paper bowl

And poured water over it,

Telling me as a child

That the best part of waking up

Was that magical first cup.


I believed the television people

Because they never lied

And surely there was a potion

In that blue metal can

Sitting on the shelf

Next to a bag of sugar;

Magic waiting for a cup.


Every day I measure the grounds

With a special metal scoop

And add the same amount of water,

Push the ‘brew’ button

And try to patiently wait

As I prepare for the first sip

Of a magically flavored cup.



Vessel


Loose lips sink ships,

And I am trying to find the bottom

Of this endless cup of coffee,

To see if the flecks leftover

From a filter bowl

That didn’t quite seat

In the worn out Bunn O Matic

Have left a message for me.

Like so many tea leaves,

Why can’t coffee dregs

Predict the future?

Loose lips sink ships.



Coffee


Lifeblood in a chipped green mug, I curl chilled fingers around ceramic, lifeblood in a chipped green mug, Nothing particularly exciting or dynamic, slowly, slowly my eyes open ever wider. I curl chilled fingers around ceramic. Better than a mug of spiked cider, I drink of biting and bitter goodness. Slowly, slowly my eyes open ever wider. They say caffeine causes stress. Shoulder shrugging I grab another cup. I drink of biting and bitter goodness The golden sun slowly comes up, I should get a start on another day. Shoulder shrugging I grab another cup. Exhaustion is finally kept at bay, I should get a start on another day; lifeblood in a chipped green mug. Lifeblood in a chipped green mug!



Morning Coffee


Drip...drip...drip,

the aroma of seared coffee beans

wafts out of the scorched carafe,

through the room

and escapes into the long hallway.

The tantalizing perfume

awakened weary eyes,

ready to consume.


The morning coffee ritual:

Carefully measure two scoops,

add water to the line where 12 cups is graphed.

Every morning the routine is habitual.

My building comes alive with caffeine;

the line to the pot perpetual.

We shake off a winter morning's gloom,

and make the idle war machine resume.


https://www.bocajava.com/?fbclid=IwAR3HtYE6yg3SBj9iR_G8SQK71RcsqtUTMvuJz7cpeo7qqaYHm5sDkLkmHYo

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