That May Be, 6 (127.)

Sometimes, I stay up a little late
and my morning self
really appreciates the fragrance of coffee.
Lately, the damn pods
have taken over the kitchen,
and the coffee’s a bit more bland.
I’m still not sure it’s an effect of the pods,
but that’s my
hare-brained theory.
Brewing it in the pot may indeed increase
the potency of the flavors,
and I love those
more than I love the fragrance.
Funny thing is,
I’m not even close to a coffee connoisseur.
When I started drinking the stuff,
I was a teenager.
It’s not like I was throwing back a mug in the morning
to propel me to school or something –
I just really enjoyed the taste of frappuccinos.
So I drank one every now and again,
and later,
I dated someone whose sister owned a fancy new Keurig machine.
Yeah, I know I can just say Keurig. Damn things
are synonymous with the brand name now.
Anyway, every time we stayed at her sister’s house,
she’d make each of us a cup of coffee in the morning.
It was blasted with vanilla creamer, and that shit
was delicious.
Later, my brother bought his own Keurig,
and through various events I can’t quite recall,
the machine ended up on my mini fridge.
It was sorta old
and sorta loud
but it worked just fine.
I made some new friends in college
and when they stayed over,
I’d offer to make coffee in the morning.
It wasn’t fancy, it wasn’t great,
but it was mine.
I tried to share it with grace.
Somehow that old machine has survived
to sit on our counter for now.
When quarantine started,
I was still brewing big pots of the good stuff
and drinking a few cups a day to stave off boredom.
Now, thanks to an influx of Mom-related care packages,
I have bags of pods.
They’re so convenient, I
put the automatic drip machine aside –
for now.
Soon, I’ll crave the stronger taste
of fresh-brewed coffee right out of the pot.
Damn, that sounds nice.
Maybe it’s time to sleep so the morning shows sooner.


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