I was in her kitchen.
I asked her for another cup of coffee.
The pot was empty.
She poured more water in the top
and let it sift through the same beans.
A weak refill at the beginning of a week
ought to be a damnable crime;
But she looked damn good in that robe,
so I let the cup grow cold, while I went
to work.

narrative poem written on 04-05-2011 by: on mattkane.com
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