I can’t seem to get my coffee right
it’s too strong or too weak
burnt because I forget
half-brewed because I’m impatient
and none of it tastes as good
as a hot cup on a cold morning
when I was young and hopeful —
romantic even;
somehow everything now
in this wicked, hobbled world
is just not right,
and I wonder if whiskey
might better suit the mood,
neat with a long, hard drag
off a Marlboro
might at least allow an exhale
now and then.
Photo by Marek Piwnicki. Poem ©2025, Jen Payne. If you like this poem, you’ll love my new book SLEEPING WITH GHOSTS, on sale now!
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