I told you that I had no choice but to love you
and you smiled and nodded as if you were giving in to the thought,
but your eyes brightened and your mouth contorted
into the smirk that you give me when you're quite certain
either someone offered me thirty silver to say it
or I'm full of ****
I lacked a taste for coffee when I was young.
Patience was a commodity in short supply,
and the few times I had tried to drink it
I found nothing but pain and bitterness in the beverage.
Yet, every time you came you brought it with you
and you brewed it with so much care
that I did not have the heart to tell you
how difficult it was for me to drink it.
Did I never tell you how you always forgot
to turn off the machine when you left?
I would follow behind you and switch it off ,
after you departed,
because you were too busy to stay
and drink what you had so effortlessly made.
I think my hands were too rough for the machine you used,
and when I broke the machine,
it continued to trickle slowly.
I knew how much it meant to you
so I did everything that I could to keep it off the floor.
Teacups and coffee mugs and plastic cups were the first to be filled
followed by punch bowls and baking dishes and iron pots.
It still dripped slowly and I started to panic
when the bathtub and the washing machine both started to overflow.
In those years I had become a sprinter
yelling at the masses to keep up during a charity marathon.
How many women delighted
in the seemingly endless supply of coffee that I brought to them?
It was often lukewarm at best,
and tasted nothing like when you had first brewed it,
but few will complain about the taste of a free drink when they thirst.
While they delighted in coffee I drank San Pellegrino in a glass
and the most sanguine sangria when I thought no one was watching.
Who was I to think them less evolved for not knowing the difference?
It is hard to keep sight of a finish line so far away
when the thought never leaves your mind
that if you ever stop sprinting and you fall behind
you might return home to find it submerged.
I did not stop running until I could no longer breathe.
When I woke up I was sitting in the same house
that you used to brew coffee in while we visited.
I did not know what else to do,
and so I started pouring the coffee out.
I could not slow down once I had started.
Gallon after gallon poured out
and it rushed down the drain so willingly
that I wondered what stake gravity had in the matter.
I took the time to learn how the machine had been broken,
and with effort I repaired it so that it no longer trickled.
You still brew coffee every time that you come to visit,
but you brew it with so much care
that I have learned the patience to drink it slowly.
What choice did I ever have but to learn to drink it?
Did I never tell you how you always forget
to turn the machine off when you leave?