The Coffee Room

The coffee pots sit there
Empty-
No one to fill them,
No one to wash them,
And watch the chocolate-colored water drip from
The machine and tap into the pots.

The scent of heaven that once filled my sense of smell
Brings back memories of childhood
When our percolating pot and family
Sat around the table, sipping from their
Stained coffee cups, before instant anything existed.

With cups in hand, they filed in pouring the steaming,
Liquid into their individualized lives:

"Black." "Light no Sugar." "Dark with Sweet 'n Low..."

Lips squeezed together, as if positioned for a whistle,
He draws in a small amount of the hot stuff,
Careful not to burn his wanting lips--and lifts his head satisfied.

Now, the room, the pots, and the feelings attached to them
Are gone and each time I see them sitting there -- I wish
Someone cared.

bn©2009