There is a girl of industrial coffee make.
I long to know her outside the grind,
glimpsed at the window seat this morning,
while my cup grows warm.
Then cool; moving towards chill.
The percolator tempered fingers so keen
to curl around the edges
while she shuffles. To smile with sadness.
Place emphasis upon the sigh
as the words drip;
expressions caught,
bitterness held.
I never enjoy after that first sip.
Glare at the rinds collecting at the bottom
only meant to throw away; nestle somewhere in a waste basket.
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