This is an old post from an old blog but it's important to me so I want it here.
There's no cream or milk today at work,
Supplies are running low, so all that's left
is the dry, dust of white flakes
the commercials call creamer.
I haven't used this stuff in years.
I remember I didn't like it,
but I foolishly thought it was
the taste that drove me away.
One dash, the coffee turns
a sickly pale watery brown
that reminds me
of church basements.
Feelings stir, so I pour
another dash, and another,
and yet it remains the same
sickly pale watery brown.
The colour of church basements,
Of burnt coffee, offerings on the altar of A.A.,
Of weak coffee, served with sandwiches after mass,
Of stale coffee, in canisters during the soup kitchen hours.
The colour of my past, of my pains,
of all I've endured, held in a styrofoam cup.