Each morning I leave my coffee cup sitting on

the kitchen counter. I leave it not quite empty.

The coffee waits there all day, and all night.

The next morning he greets me like a lover.

“Well, is it you again?” I say rather coldly

as I fill the kettle and place it on a burner.

“True, we had a fling way back when,”

weighing out the coffee beans to grind.

“You're just one of my yesterdays.”

Then I grind those beans very fine.

“Maybe you would still taste pretty good,”

while I pour the grounds into a filter cone.

“But I always move forward, I deline to rewind,”

moaning in anticipation of what will soon come.

“The kettle is warming, so is my G-spot

which wants something you haven't got.”

“My naughty G-spot needs something new.

“My hungry G-spot craves something hot.”

Into the thirsty dripper basket I pour liquid heat.

A different kind of liquid heat moistens my meat.

“It's over, you should go now, please leave me alone.”

A steaming decoction starts to stream from the cone.

I dump the dregs of the old one into the sink,

let the young one's fresh brew spurt into my cup,

say “Lover, I'm going to drink every drop of you up!”

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

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