A Pot Of Coffee

I am not a fancy man
Just a man bound
in service to
necessity

To stay there
I drink
a pot of coffee by sunrise

and by this I mean
neither a pot
of French press
nor a pot of artisanal brew
poured from some new invention designed to extract
the floral flavor from some ancient strain
of mountain grown wildcat shit bean

I mean instead
that I drink a pot of coffee
made in a Mr. Coffee using
whatever decently farmed bean
is on sale in whatever market
I went to on my way home last night
from whatever
last rideshare I gave
or long return commute I made
from some far too far away
per diem contract job
I just completed

I drink a pot of whatever coffee I can get
that will pull me awake before sunrise
after too little sleep

then sit down to steal some time
for trying to tell the truth
about beauty and justice
and all the good abstractions
we live for
before heading into the concrete

terror at unpaid rent
nagging pain in my teeth
worry about every stranger
I let into my car
who might carry not one
but every virus
the memory of
every sugar shock
that laid me out
for lost days unplanned

I drink a pot of coffee
not for its flavor but its effect
and ritual
I can’t afford flavor
I can afford effect
and can make some comforting routine
out of the gurgle and hiss
of the old machine

All I look for from each day
is not to curl into a ball
or end up laid out
on a cold bed
to never write again
or work again
or love again

Flavor is a luxury I can’t afford
to seek

though I do remember it

Behind Mr. Coffee on the counter
is my grandmother’s stove top
Bialetti moka pot
and behind my regular drip grind
is a can of Lavazza espresso grind

for someday
some afternoon respite
with a blank screen
and a free from worry hour or two

When I see these things I tell myself

Soon