The flavor of coffee – poem



My friend says she can’t drink coffee

because she’s an empath.


The reasons clarify after Time Magazine

declared it true. And I suppose it’s a see-


saw to my 8-10 cups a day. One day

I may run out, the earth may run out, global

warming will be warned along the way;


the Chronicle and Post will wail

like the ads on facebook

for a user on mute.


But whether I’m an empath

seems the point here. She’s stating


her claim on pain; she feels too much,

like me. And here we are, two sentient

beings on Earth, debating


verisimilitude or better yet

attitude. There is a gash

in her understanding;


I see it because I see my own

(That makes me both egocentric

and empathic).


Sorrow quarantines us,

and the love we ask for doesn’t always


arrive. I am here. I have

borrowed insights like I have borrowed


stars. How do we sooth ourselves

when no one else will? Were do we


go? There is an actual town in Texas

called Earth, with a population


of maybe 1100. I’d like to take a trip

there, document the phatic how-do-you-dos,


and translate into tone. But that would

take a lot of coffee, and I’d want

my friend to be there too.



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