As I sip my
coffee and
marvel at
the French Vanilla
goodness of
it, I wonder about
the processed
chemical components
of it and
whether it’s bad for me,
but it’s so
delicious in my steamy cup.
Do I care?
Do I care
that it might be unhealthy?
That it
might be made with bug legs or
cow eyes or
monkey pubes?
Do I care
that it might not be good for
my liver or
heart?
No.
I don’t.
I don’t
care.
It’s good
and I want it.
Every single
morning I want it.
I miss it on
the days I don’t have coffee.
I take another
sip, even after writing the
phrase, “monkey
pubes”.
Ahh,
satisfying.
The right
amount to pick me
up and get
me going, to focus on my job,
my poem, my
life.
Is it metaphorical?
Are we all
willing to swallow a little unknown
to sate our
overwhelming desires for
some
fleeting satisfaction?
Are we
conditioned to eat and drink from
the table of
chemistry without complaint?
Another warm
sip, my coffee is cooling now,
it almost
tastes better when it’s not piping hot,
its rich and
lightly creamy, full of sugar and optimistic
potential. I
can get that project done. I can get these
tasks
completed, thanks to the coffee and French Vanilla
flavors, and
maybe monkey pubes.
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