Coffee Poem by Monicque Dugger

Honest drops of Tuesday night
(what few there were)
drained into electric puddles
of coffee and midnight.

Mournful whistles of
molecules(and coffee pots)
alive, ready,
waiting,
rang teasingly between the walls,
dancing in their own
kinetic waltz
of love and touch.

All that humming in the thick
warmth of twelve o'something
was less then love,
but more than just the coffee.
(Cream with one sugar. No exceptions.)