Cold Coffee

Not a song by a ginger haired Suffolk boy today
But a cup
Grey, red, from Disneyland
The least enthusiastic dwarf embossed on the front
Facing the other way.

Not that you could notice.
Your eyes are fixed onto your keyboard
Your diary to your right
Spilling demands
“Would you be able tos”.

Where once you’d sit
A long breakfast
A day of watching Ross and Rachel take a break
Now, you are without such leisure
No intermission here
Only fifth gear
Writing like Alexander
But you aren’t founding The Free World
Just dipping your toes into the world you are building for yourself.

What was in that smooth ceramic
Was intention and steam
Dolly may say a cup of ambition
But ambition needs no cup today
Deadlines replace that need for hot, fresh drive
Or maybe merely encourages it.

So there it sits cold
While your stiff fingers tap away
Another project
Another day
And bare feet sit crossed beneath
Not dressed yet
You haven’t even brushed your teeth.

Imy Brighty-Potts

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