There,
he wonders if there is
too much cream coiling in
tendrils, swirling.
He peels the cup from a large penny-stain
and sups at sweet heat, too sweet,
too sweet.

If only it was of the richest brown!
Bitter and scalding - and it becomes!
Clearer and clearer it becomes
in porcelain mug, creamy.
And the world would be most wonderful, then.
The world would be wonderful
once more, again, the rain would once more dance
again, just as the coffee
must trace young
delicate rings on
placemats and the upper bits
of lips-

but the rain outside is heavy and stale, and the stains
are leaking, leaking pennies
Still, he stares into his coffee
sitting plainly on the table
and thinks.