After my morning coffee, I leave the cup on

the kitchen counter beside the pot. Half-full.

The coffee waits there all day and all night.

The next morning he greets me like a lover.

“Why are you still hanging around here?”

I ask him, settling the kettle on a burner.

“We had our little fling but that's over,”

weighing dark roasted beans to grind.

“I only move forward, I can never rewind,”

eagerly anticipating what's going to come.

“Doesn't matter if you might still taste OK,”

grinding those bold black beans extra fine.

“Today you are merely another yesterday,”

spooning grounds into a brown filter cone.

The kettle's getting hotter and so is my G-spot

which craves the thrills yesterdays haven't got.

I grab the boiling kettle and I pour like a whore.

A liquid heat cascades through the basket.

A different liquid heat moistens my meat.

My naughty place is aroused, it's frisky,

it's making me too crazy horny to think.

What I've been lusting for starts to stream from the cone.

Dumping my old lover's dregs into the sink I shout

“I want to be alone now, go away, get the hell out!”

Then filling my cup with the young one's potent fresh

brew I sprawl on the floor moaning lewdly and loudly

   “Lover, I am going to drink every drop of you up.”

The comfort of cold coffee is making a new pot of hot.