Demise of a Brew Station
I am waiting for the coffee to finish.
I sit and listen, eyes closed
for the gurgling sound of water
and the aroma of fresh grounds
to waft through my senses.
Hurry up I say inside,
because I badly need a morning fix.
I sit and wait, and wait and wait –
nothing. No music, no sweet aroma,
no signal ritualizing daily expectation.
I get up and like a doctor with a tongue
blade, stick my finger in the throat
of the Hamilton Beach Brew Station.
Ugh! Cold water like congealed blood.
No pulse. Heart has stopped. Patient
Is dead. Gotta get to Wal-Mart.
Morning tea is for Englishman and
Chinese merchants.
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