Coffee Coffee | A Poem

Coffee.

Coffee.

I like coffee. I like drinking coffee.
I like drinking coffee in the cool hours
Of the night while drawing, doing homework, or driving.
I like to drink coffee.

I don't mean fancy coffee.
Just cream
and sugar.
Coffee of the kitchen countertop.

No espresso stand or coffee carte;
Whipping up something special.
I'm talking a big, red, metal can
Of Folgers in your cup-board.

The best part of waking up
Is Folgers in your cup.

The best part of staying up
Is Folgers in your cup.

Getting coffee at a Shari's IHOP, or Denny's
Two in the morning with Folgers in your cup.
The feel of the silver spoon
Hitting the white sides of a porcelain cup.
I can hear the sound it makes. Ting ting.

Stirring in the cream and sugar.
I can see the cream swirling in black until
It fades to a creamy tan.

I like to shake the little sugar packets and listen
To the small grains shift to the back of the pack
As the paper goes crinkle crinkle, crinkle crinkle;
Much faster than I can say crinkle.

Crinkle.

To hear the sound of coffee being poured
Is a treasure to the ears.

Its euphony brings a sliver of energy soon to be delivered
On that first taste; after you
Set the spoon down on your napkin and
See it creep brown slowly.

Slowly across white fibers textured in pattern.
First sips travel and coat your textured stomach
Similarly.

Your eyes seem to open just that much more.
You first start to notice the haze around you as a restaurant.
That big bright pillow you fell onto is a
Booth now sturdy and stiff.

You sit at your table and mix the cream
And stir the sugar.

You forget about getting here at midnight.

The lights are on, everyone is awake

Conversing as if it were midday.

You continue working on your midterm or your final,
Or maybe just your sketchbook drawing, and
Before you know it, almost everyone else is gone.

No one is talking anymore, there is much less noise.
You look down to see that a myriad of
Sugar packets have been shook, poured, and stirred.

You peer back to the door you drowsily entered and see that
There is light outside. A new day has started without you and
Here you are without memory of night passing.

But,

Your midterm is minutes from completion and all you
Have to do is make it to that one class and turn it in.
You can then go back home and have your night,
But it will cost you the day.

However, when you wake up,
There is always coffee.

---

This is a poem I wrote for a creative writing class while attending the Art Institute of Seattle. I probably wrote it around 2004 as a 21 year old. As I write this, that was 18 years ago but in some ways it feels like only a few. Crazy how time flies.