Coffee

My work for you to judge.



Dedicated to all my friends who have been brought down by anything


I spilled my coffee today.
It may happen to everybody, yet
Everyone forgets it happens when it happens
To anybody else. It makes them become perfect.
And I become the flaw where they can
Fix their sight. And if I walk on to them,
They'll look at me with disapproving eyes,
As you do now. Why look at me that way?

I know it's no good to cry over spilt milk,
Not even spilt coffee. It's more mature to cry
For not having a good night's sleep
Because that leaves you tired. Or cry because
Your mother has grown old, and sad, and sick. Or
cry because somebody told you
Your father died last night. But if I cry about it
Then nobody will ask. They'll give me kindred smiles,
friendly pats on the shoulder. They just won't look at me
With disapproving eyes. I guess it is
My turn now. Should I go there this way?

But if I stand up right there
They will start judging me. And you shall sit with them,
See they are judgmental, and say
She's not my friend. And they will laugh and tell
You: Look at her, she's careless,
Such an important day and she's all messy,
All because she's careless. That way I'll be
The drunken clown on stage, the junkie sad star,
A really-don't-care-for-you politician,
Who stretched out his hand, and ordered
To his fire to burn bowels, to ash corpses,
Everything to explode as my sad coffee
Exploded on the floor, and on my clothes, and on the memories
Of my heart.

Another cup of coffee, now. There is no other way.