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.