The coffee molting in that licked cup is stale
already, gone the steam, gone the beans,
gone the money-bagged Peruvian bean man,
never stood a chance against this batch.
Doesn’t matter anyhow the cup’s not there
for consumption anyhow, the cups
there are all for aesthetics—my fancy word
for look at me in my mood, look at
me with my wild hair and lips a’licking
the plastic lid cup “recycled” what?!—
we listen to jazz, have our conversations
& appreciate these “timey” days
blending so neatly with themes of the 20’s
ironic demise, impending doom
forestalling happiness all about the mood!
O Johnny Griffen, O Hampton Hawes!
Did you know you would be the voice of today,
those little box speakers singing &
singing? Let’s talk about that spider I just
ended, long legs lingering between
my two fingers, let’s talk about why we feel
so small when we’ve got it all even
now we’ve got it all; I lift up my cup &
I know that I don’t have to drink it.