Coffee

By: Isabelle Morgan

My hot water was more 

brown than black this morning. 

Lukewarm and transparent, 

too weak to have tried, forgot to pretend. 

I can’t say I haven’t been expecting this.

I could hear the bubbling resentment

Building with every recent demand to boil. 

But what if I am wrong,

And the grounds were the problem. 

That yellow tub could be laced,

Scattered with dirt or worse

Ashes of poor frozen bodies

Sleeping until the two minutes 

in the morning when I desperately need 

them to do their job and shake me awake.  

Whose going to tell me 

That I’m being unreasonable?

The kettle, the grounds, the clock?