Coffee, A Prose Poem Poem by Denis Mair

Coffee in the morning feels like a shirt of rough wool; it strikes me as a fluke of distribution; it feels like a fidget of the sensorium. For some it is mainly a sugar vehicle...White crystals emerged from sugar's dark colonial history, only to fall back into the dark Niagra of America's coffee habit. Unbottled water takes a stand against flavorism; homeless shelters take a stand against domicilism. There must be other plant materials that could also make dark, bitter brews, but this rut is made for falling into.