Coffee

Hours in their unending,
racing, ticking revolution
rob the sleep,
the rest, the calm,
and the last straws
from under weary feet.

In the panic, the jolt
of terrible realization:
sleeplessness!
Breeding mistake
and double-take
and “I'll be late”
again and again and -
oh, the hair-pullingness
of the moment!

So comes it,
the Dark Side,
the Dark One,
bitter and black,
with the forbidden aroma
that calls to sleepwalkers
as sirens to sailors:
and we, half-ruined,
take the dive into the cup
and face the attack.

Heart a drumroll,
arteries a racetrack,
and blood the unwilling victim
of a frenzied, desperate race;
eyes open, senses on edge,
we take the second,
third,
fourth
wind
and turn it
into a life.

“Two creams,
two sugars.”
And we are done for.