MUG

One cup of
coffee please… to go

How’d you like it?

Milk and
two spoons of sugar…

and a stirrer, wooden
if you have one. In a cup with the
bakery logo printed on it
and a thin plastic coating on the inside, please. A cup
with a lid with tear-back flap that locks in
on top, revealing the curled paper edge to hold on to,
with my teeth… with two gentle
pressure pricks on my lower lip from the
torn lid rim, on either side of the sip opening, to
remind me of my poorly evolved upper canines.

And no jacket, for my fingers to feel
the heat. And for me
to hear “Anything else?”,
or “That’s one fifty, please.” or
the “plink” of my quarter
hitting the tip can. And

a rubbing against people waiting their turn
all the way out the door
a soft ouch and the
smell on my fingers
after spilling some. And

a walk back home along the avenue, stepping off
one sidewalk, heading for the one across the street,
looking left, crossing the recently swept
gutter and the street with the
filled pothole, the asphalt
still steaming,

I dodge a honk, cross
a gutter again, an oil stained
puddle, between the parked Harley & Honda Civic, a stroll

in to my street, through my garden gate, a two-stepped stride
up the steps of my stoop, I hold

the cup in one hand, I take the key
out of my pocket with the other, take a first
sip before unlocking the door and walk in, to
sit down and back, at
my kitchen table with a view of
the countertop, home
of my coffeemaker and a
chipped dirty mug.