Sitting at my desk again is the monitor
the tape, the stapler, ah, the paperclips
inside the stout glass bowl, its lid tipped
like a hat, the handle an inverted core.
The chair's sad job is to hold my butt up.
It doesn't like it, you see, it squeaks meanly.
Just look at you, you dumb coffee cup,
your eggplant ceramic skin gleams,
subtly excited for my touch. But the mason jar
has emptied its soul to the dropped ceiling,
or was it before I took you home from the bar?
Your mouth filled to the brim with feeling.
While the margarita likes a salty laugh,
All the coffee wants is a little half and half.
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