All night we addicts take our turns,
connect for cigarettes or sweets,
or a cup from the immemorial urn
abstracted from uremic cheetah
to be simmered lovingly all day,
until a glance will etch the teeth.
Awful coffee, is what I’m saying.
No one bothers to pretend
it hasn’t always been that way,
and yet the heads recoil again
and again from the waxed-paper rims,
delighting the fixed few old men
who gather as the day gets dim
to court by night the cardboard
queen who hypes Virginia Slims.
Yes. Much as it’s to be deplored,
an itch for the bitch nicotine
will still often jog me toward
that urn in the odd hours between
gray despair and dawn’s red ink.
But I head first for the chrome caffeine,
unable to care what the regulars think
of someone who never seems to learn,
who always winces, always drinks.
3 comments:
Sucker for punishment,eh? ;-)
Rather have the bitch than the bean but a local garage probably sells the worst coffee in the world. It tastes like stewed wool.
Abs, you got me. But if I wasn't, I wouldn't be doing this, would I?
Stewed wool, Minx? You don't know how lucky you are...
Post a Comment