Miesha and the Cup of Coffee

That is good coffee,
I tell my cat.

She
barely cares, or so
I think. Half-asleep
and stiff staring at the screen
as if to wonder why it matters
this much how good
the coffee is.

It keeps my face moving,
I tell her. It keeps me
talking, even to you
with closed eyes still
looking my way and waiting
for me to get up and go
into the kitchen to start
a day with incremental
changes: maybe I go
somewhere; perhaps I finish
cleaning up the invasive vines
I cut free yesterday; there is
a chance later today I’ll
make dinner. Whatever.

She puts her head down
and turns to one side —
she knows I am telling
a partial truth, a lie or
something less than a lie —
her eyes tight against it.

Well, it’s good coffee still,
I say. I’ll go make myself
another cup. She doesn’t care.
It’s all the same to her. It’s all
the same to me or it will be
until I make another cup
before it shuts off and grows cold.

She doesn’t care.
It is all the same to her.