coffee-filled condensation
drips from the tentacle
of my one-of-a-kind
hand-made
oversized
coffee
mug
and i try to rescue it
bringing as much of the drop as i can
from side
to finger
to mouth
but there’s still condensation
from cold fridge
to warm house
dichotomies
exchanging
vibes
and i’m glad i don’t have to worry about coasters for this table
much
writing
a thing
but not the way i want to be
writing it
not in the way i’ve imagined
saying it
not in the context and meter and rhythm i’ve
dreamt it
and i’m hesitating words in a way i
never do
is this all some sort of quandary
of feeling ‘off’
simply because my coffee is hot
[[not
iced]]?
so cold
too cold to think
too cold to do much else
but obsess about the cold
~~~
apparently that poem is too true
my brain has short-circuited
and i ponder things other than the cold
but they only flit in and out
as my body gets used to the
inside heat once more
(even though it’s not nearly as heated
as my freeze-baby body would prefer)
(and that’s still with snow pants and a sweater on)
(but will i stop drinking this ice-cold coffee?
absolutely not.)
~~~
fake fireplace
give me warmth
flicker your rolling light flames
and force heated air towards my
shivering bod
my one solace in the wintertime
kipventures 