Coffee Poem by Butch Decatoria

It's a Kuerig

Not a cure all.

Since every workday

morning

I have mistaken as weekends,

Like those Indian summers

At nine

Over-sleeping-in

My little white pillow cloud

I piggy back rode

Since then mistaken my dreaming

As Heavens (in the Nth

degrees)

Far from my youth

Here now,

@MidLife

Grind...

How dark roasts have that

Not so dissimilar aromatic

Bitterness

And caustic ash

After

Taste.

Instant is cheap.

Unemployed drug of choice:

Coffee.