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My mug is large and heavy and has yellow and blue flowers on it.
It is a vessel of yesterday's dried remnants which I take to the kitchen.
A contained version of morning happens in the microwave, the light, the heat, the chirp.
Keegan's French press has wet grounds in the bottom.
He doesn't mind that I use it, and I always clean it for him.
We keep the grounds in the freezer.
The best way is to leave them at room temp in a sealed container.
(In bed.) But air at work is different from air at home.
I smell different, dustier when I get home each day.
Some grounds stick to the wet glass.
It's a single-serve press, and not all of my water fits.
I set the timer on the microwave and stir for one minute.
I set the timer on the microwave and do nothing for one minute.
There is steam, foam, and a strong coffee odor. The smell of the art room.
Back into my mug, this black brew with all its essential nutrients.
These grounds started as berries on a bush in Guatemala.
They've been roasted, smashed to smithereens, protected, boiled, strained.
They are dead anyway, but I feel the tiniest pang throwing them out.
For the sake of a little cream, should I mention what the cow goes through?




slightly edited. This is somewhat experimental. I'm not sure if it works or if it's just boring.

Manna wrote:My mug is large and heavy and has yellow and blue flowers on it.
It is a vessel of yesterday's dried remnants which I take to the kitchen.
A contained version of morning happens in the microwave, the light, the heat, the chirp.
Keegan's French press has wet grounds in the bottom.
He doesn't mind that I use it, and I always clean it for him.
We keep the grounds in the freezer.
The best way is to leave them at room temp in a sealed container.
(In bed.) But air at work is different from air at home.
I smell different, dustier when I get home each day.
Some grounds stick to the wet glass.
It's a single-serve press, and not all of my water fits.
I set the timer on the microwave and stir for one minute.
I set the timer on the microwave and do nothing for one minute.
There is steam, foam, and a strong coffee odor. The smell of the art room.
Back into my mug, this black brew with all its essential nutrients.
These grounds started as berries on a bush in Guatemala.
They've been roasted, smashed to smithereens, protected, boiled, strained.
They are dead anyway, but I feel the tiniest pang throwing them out.
For the sake of a little cream, should I mention what the cow goes through?




slightly edited. This is somewhat experimental. I'm not sure if it works or if it's just boring.

it's medium. you are, of course, an excellent writer as anyone who doesn't come here knows,and some who do do. the phrase to cut immediately is "smashed to smithereens", that doesn't work at all, just simple "smashed" is righter. me thinks you have an idea and this piece could work but at mo it's resting.

Poor coffee beans.

Not at all boring. I love small rituals and I love when that lens focuses in to the micro.
It's a poem that has me curious with the differences between the coffee at home and work (both places we live).