The coffee of at the gas station I’m the afternoon driver, half ‘n’ half not flavored please, as long as it’s liquid, styrofoam cup, $1.99.
The coffee that is a trick: at home, 7 pm, who needs it, but to write, I have coffee.
The coffee after dinner everyone was served at once, under stainless steel covers, “Could I have a decaf?’ and let the dessert be chocolate, I am still so hungry.
The coffee of they only have powered creamer so I will just hold it to keep my hands warm.
The coffee of having been up all night wanting to listen to him and can he see I’m charming and no I don’t need to go to work tomorrow, whatever, but it turns out I am going to work, shit, shit, shit.
The coffee of just another morning with Elena and the guys who talk about baseball in radio voices but I never ask, “Are you on the radio?”
The coffee of place replacing place where I get coffee so often I got phone calls there and drove the barista to the garage to pick up her car once, this is an okay place, too, I guess.
The coffee of snowed-in.
The coffee of Uncle Dan always has Bailey’s, and it is Christmas night, and there is Trivial Pursuit to be played and shouting will commence, scores to be settled, couches, chairs, stairs, and floor full of us and us full of Robert’s special cocktails from the restaurant.
The coffee of high tea, apologizing but, “I just don’t like tea,” and Mom drinking tea from a teapot wearing a coat and we eat swan-shaped pastries and thank you, I’m embarrassed, but thank you.
The coffee of a million sweaty degrees in New Orleans, I have never had it, but I will, Yankee fast with a paper cup,I must get to the conference, and they will sell me a lot more.
The coffee of I just need to sit down a minute.
The coffee of so tired from catching kids cheating on vocab quizzes, I better have one or I will fall asleep during our Friday celebrating, even with all those televisions and our laughter at the kids and all those Irish nachos to finger through, but put whiskey in it, please.
The coffee of: this is merely medicinal, I don’t have a migraine, I’m sure I don’t, just a regular ol’ headache, I’m fine, really.
The coffee of I’ve already had too much, but just to be sociable.
The coffee of I’d rather have a drink, but I shouldn’t.
The coffee of I don’t care if this tastes like blackbirds, I like hanging out here.
The coffee of, they gave me a sugar cube!
The coffee of every meal a cappucino because you are in Italy and every cup there tastes like a unicorn.
Pictured: The coffee of diner. Actually, the diner that is the outside of the “Seinfeld” diner, at which I was eating not for any Seinfeldian purpose but just for proper diner breakfast, which I love and hadn’t had in ages, in that neighborhood.
Special thanks to: Writhing Society, our assignnment at which I made this.