I have a bashed-up coffee donker,
From too hard and too much dinking —

It sits there, next to my retro, white barista-chine*,
On my movable wine bar,
Slash coffee trolley cart;
My all-in-one entertainment station.

Where, previously, I had a silver aluminium bucket
Storing all my coffee sloshes.

It seemed like a convenient (cheaper) way
To free my frustrations fancifully —

I could have gone to a firing range,
Or let some golf ***** fly,
Usually though,
I just internalise the anxiety and rage —

Life is fragile
Like a china tea cup cracked —
Do we hold on to these crooked pieces,
Like we hold our inner wounds,
Hoping to mend them one day —
Is it something sentimental?
Mindful?
Frugal?!

Precious.