My Kind of Coffee

POEM TEXT:
The meaningless, mediocre stuff may as well be mud.
Damn the price. I want the freshest cup in the most
perfect mug. I want the perfectly ripened bean, hand-
picked from the tree growing in lava fields on the side of a volcano.
Pamper each fruit as it is dried and roasted at precise temperatures.
The handlebar-moustached, leather-aproned barista will grind a mound of
precisely-weighed beans to the perfect grit in lab-grade equipment and
then pour the reverse-osmosis filtered water over the contents and
directly into my pre-heated mug. Champions from across the globe will waft
and inspect each drop’s worthiness. Sipping with closed eyes, the taste
hits the back of my neck promptly after hitting my tongue. The perfect cup.
I’m also keen to the instant shit. The shit coffee that knows it is shit.
The cheap burnt shit that came from a huge tin, brewed by the unapologetic,
drowsy night shifter at the 24/7 Quick-e-mart. The shit that gets shit done.
The road trip shit. The all-night shit. The adventure shit. The shit that
you press hard and suck down with a squint at 3:15 A.M.
The shit you drink strictly for effect—not taste—and the
reasoning alone changes the coffee’s taste in your brain.
Adventure fuel or liquid of the Gods. Damn a mediocre cup.