This cup of joe
never lies.
Sip,
as it drowns
my mouth.
Wash me whole
but filled with holes
punctured previously;
Coffee flows
freely.
My second cup,
the third drop
tastes familiar
and stale.
Three-fourths sugar
but bitter,
made sour by spoon.
Dangling,
stirring -
I shall finish my cup
soon.
And what have I learned?
It takes a little bit
of German
and sweet-sounding French
to blend the Irish,
Mexicans;
when I stare,
I leave a welt.
I leave a welt.
I do it so well.
I leave a mark;
it creeps up your neck.
It strangles
then spits venom
on your face.
It will wipe,
it shall lick the scars
left by Grace.
Your saving grace -
amazing grace -
coined by days, years
6 years,
perhaps,
5.
Count to 7,
down to 8, 9, 10 -
the 11th,
you die.
And my cup,
it overflows.
It overflowed,
caffeine-sweet.
The bitter had gone sour;
the sweet,
sweetened by spit.