the importance of coffee

the kitchen island is cold,
marbled.
i rest my face against it
and close my eyes.
the TV blasts in the background.
monotone news anchors stumble
on their words
another uprising?
or another act of terror.
i take a sip from the mug.
the bitter coffee burns my tongue
but i keep drinking it anyway
drowning the sweet flavours
of the afternoon’s cakes and tea
in acid. apparently decaf can raise
the acidity of coffee, too,
but i’m not drinking decaf
because i need to stay up late
to fight my nightmares.
i refill more of that cheap,
instant powdery shit,
and pour it into a ceramic coffee mug.

slush is oozing through the holes in my boots.
i bought these boots to keep
the moisture out. more cheap shit,
and they were expensive, too.
the snow, at the edges of the street,
is almost black. my clothes are rubbing
against one another.
layers and layers of cloth and fabric,
causing a reduction in agility.
i am not agile,
but this fact bothers me, anyway.
the bus pulls up towards the station
and i get on,
slush slipping off my boots and
onto the bus’ floor with every step.
i show the driver my ticket
but he doesn’t pay attention,
and i grab onto the handles
to make sure i stay upright.
on the bus, every slight movement
can result in the largest accident
so i stay absolutely still.
the man in front of me coughs
into a Kleenex. at least a third
of the people here are sick.
no food and drinks on the bus,
but i take a sip of my coffee.
i hate the winter.

the bus pulls up at the terminus.
everyone gets off,
this is where the ride ends
if you were riding for fun
as I know some people do
because they don’t have anything
better to do. but i have a place to go,
i always have a place to go.
i suppose i don’t, i don’t really
have to go, but i go because there’s
no point in staying.
i get on the train. there are empty seats
this time,
a rarity.
i sit, my back facing the direction we
are travelling, like i’m moving
backwards. but i suppose any direction
can be backwards;
it all depends which way you’re facing.
it’s dark now, as the winter always is,
and i rest my head on the window
to watch the buildings pass by.
their lights form patterns that are
almost random. we pass over a river
and the lights reflecting off the river
make the view look beautiful,
but it’s not,
not really,
because i know that in the morning,
we’ll all see the river for the polluted
mess it really is.
i am finished my coffee, and there is
only powder left, because the machine
doesn’t mix properly. i tip my head back
and pour the mushy powder into my mouth.
disgusting. but it would be a waste if i didn’t.
i get off at the last stop. it’s
always the last stop.
i am here,” i whisper to the earth,
but i am not here. i am never here;
i am always going.