Coffee

At 5:14pm I look at the white cup, it feels right to have it next to a lamp. A fixture in my office, its free and adult, therefore I consume. “A history of opulence and a tradition of excellence” emblazoned upon its side like a post-consumer thermal coat of arms.

Even coffee has a rep to protect.

It is always cold; I almost never finish the cup. The containers accumulate everywhere, never in pairs, but sporadic throughout the room. Evidence of past work locations ... “Brian was here… briefly.” Days later I will investigate them and pop the lids to find new cream formations, a caffeinated Rorschach test. Sadly, this amuses me, as does pouring the remains down the sink through the tiny drink hole…