Cold Coffee
A woman drinks cold coffee because
the daily prayers of tangled laundry and crumpled homework are
sacred.
Her cup sits there
marooned on the counter,
the overpopulated desk,
the afterthought of a window ledge
Aroma waning, steam dissolved,
A price for the golden offering of
children,
with eyes at half mast,
executing whispered mantras meant to tempt them from their beds
scrounging patience for a rogue sock in the pantry
hurrying the traditions of “be careful” and “don’t be late”
In the dregs of the evening rituals, she surrenders
Emptying the mug, the last hope of a hot cup of joe
Spiralling
Down the drain,
mingling with the sludge of dishwater and toast crumbs.
2 replies on “Cold Coffee”
As a drinker of cold coffee and mother of five I love every cup I have ever poured away.
(I actually like my java on the cool-side)
Kudos to you!
Look forward to your next poem
This is beautiful. Reading your poem pulled me out of my own messy world this morning and into the sacred. Thank you for sharing it. (Loved the part in your bio about being best known for your work in 4th grade! Hilarious!)