Coffee Break

Some find the day’s start irksome,

but some the middle.

But I have found a moment worse;

my reason simple.

When 2 p.m. finds the clock,

the filters appear.

Not the kind that saves from breath

but keeps the drink clear.

In fact, the fumes are wretched,

like 1916.

Mustard seeds? Test the faith of

man attacked by beans.

The ire of my heart when I

inhale and I appose

myself by the odorous

stink filling my nose.

Or the spilling that occurs

when flimsy cups tip

onto my desktop papers.

Oh, why call it drip?

Why not call it stain or splash,

more accurate names?

Or maybe create better

cups so it’s contained?

And without it they’re cranky,

unproductive too.

Drowsy and defeated minds

with three hours ’til noon.

I despise this scheduled time,

my main complaint thus:

this beverage has a way of

making things erupt.

The bathroom line out the door

at half past the hour.

The air smells like cinnamon,

sweet pea, and some flowers.

Though I don’t participate

in those coffee breaks,

My body has its needs, bowels

don’t disciminate.

But when the line is over,

I entered and wept,

I needed toilet paper,

but there isn’t any left.