In our subset of society we
worship sweet caramel syrup and
double tall soy lattes with extra foam
and extra shots of whatever
can keep us pumping through
marathon long meetings
where we meddle
in our market’s perception
of health savings accounts,
a muddle of mindless
power point presentations
and persistent pencil tapping
on a cold granite table top.

We cannot blame the
young baristas with tattooed
arms and early morning
smiles for simply slipping
us the goods- we must blame
the comfortable coffee pushing
peddlers with heavy pockets,

the evil executives
who sit in their soft leather
armchairs and export
expensive beans from South America.

They empty our leather wallets
but fill our bladders;
offer less calories for
a slightly heavier price-
only $4.15 for a Grande
Caramel Frapuccino Light,
so many in our stomach
that we undoubtedly
will email ourselves into a
caffeine induced coma.

If we could see the constant account
debiting that swarms cyberspace-
millions of dollars transferring
between molecules-
we would drown in
the onslaught of dollar bills into
the hungry
Starbucks black hole that is
never full.

Patricia,

Your son and his roommate
do not need permission to
sign the lease on their apartment.

They do not need permission
to show up sweaty and
smiling at Sunday dinner-
some men like to jog.

Your son may dress
nicer than you taught him-
but your son and his roommate
do not need permission to
shop at Banana Republic.

He may have asked permission
to get his first car (a Paseo)
and to join the little league baseball team
but he did not need permission
to buy matching suits at prom.

Patricia, would you have given your son
permission to release himself
if every inch of him loved
every inch of
him?

He does not need permission
to feel loved-
but he would like it.

I have fondled addiction,
ran my young fingers around its
moist mouth, inhaled its deep
aroma that lightens my steps,
sours my breath.

I have brushed my finger
on the top of it, tasted
its deviously sweet side-
lips slightly parched
and aching for more.

I have never dove in
head first, been blinded
by the darkness at the bottom,
but I have waded on the surface,
feet slowly descending
until I pull them up.