The Black Drink by Amy Cotter

I used to hate it when my dad made it,

that strong aroma wafting through the house.

It woke me up every weekend morning,

dragging me to the kitchen for breakfast.

I would stare at the black liquid falling,

filling the pot with its bitter, gross taste.

“Sick,” I thought, grabbing the cereal box,

“why would someone bother making this drink?”

The worst part was he would offer me some;

moving it back and forth, to hypnotize.

No light ever shown through that liquid mess.

It was the black hole blend for bold drinkers,

trying to pull me into its vortex.

“Sick,” I uttered grabbing my bowl and spoon,

“why do you drink that stuff every day, dad?”

Starbucks started to tempt me as I aged.

Their Frappuccinos my own gateway drug

to what is now my drink of choice: coffee.

If I was to go there with my dad,

he would ask I would like a coffee.

A Frappucciono would be my request,

and on his face grew a look of disgust.

“Sick,” he said grabbing his cup of dark roast,

“those foofy drinks are not how I raised you.”

I learned this the hard way in childhood,

my dad showing me true taste in drinks.

Coffee is coffee, black as night, always.

Cream and sugar is acceptable too.

But, put it in a blender, that’s taboo.

Those are foofy drinks, not coffee, you fool.

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Poem of the Day: Early Sunday Morning

BY EDWARD HIRSCH

I used to mock my father and his chums

for getting up early on Sunday morning

and drinking coffee at a local spot

but now I’m one of those chumps.

No one cares about my old humiliations

but they go on dragging through my sleep

like a string of empty tin cans rattling

behind an abandoned car.

It’s like this: just when you think

you have forgotten that red-haired girl

who left you stranded in a parking lot

forty years ago, you wake up

early enough to see her disappearing

around the corner of your dream

on someone else’s motorcycle

roaring onto the highway at sunrise.

And so now I’m sitting in a dimly lit

café full of early morning risers

where the windows are covered with soot

and the coffee is warm and bitter.