There was a time when if it didn't cause you pain to get it out
it wasn't a legit experience.
Those days are gone -- gladly.
Now I am too old, the coffee sours me
and I wonder if the stomach spasm is just from the coffee.
I come to the tiny table with cliches and memories and the last traces of dreams.
Something pulls; I lean in, I lean back; something stays, retracts.
Moving; that's how things make sense -- moving in a sort of stasis in a singular place.
Spilling myself across the table. Sloppy.
That hasn't changed -- the careless handling of containers.
But the contents have gotten hotter, darker, more acidic, bolder.
And it causes me pain to drink it in.
And I like it.