Candy and Coffee

All Hopped Up

I roll out of bed and pull on the jeans
that I wore yesterday, lying haphazard
on the floor. I grab a Twix from
the counter and don’t bother eating breakfast.
(It is unfortunate that I must wait
until I punch in on the clock
to have my morning coffee,
my only moment of happiness,
the thing that keeps me whole.)

I run to the train on most mornings,
running late a new thing on my agenda,
something I haven’t been doing
along with smoking and drinking and
anything but television and sleeping.
And everything is a rush, until it slows
mindlessly down, between station and station,
the agonizing forty-five minutes of daydreams
and homeless talking,
and men preaching anarchist teachings
while pledging their love to their country.
(And I wait, uncaffeinated, my fingers
tapping on the window, my eyes
lolling back and forth, noting people
and buildings and places I’d go
if I could get myself out of bed in the morning.)

And at work I grudge through,
the first cup just a moment, a sip,
something I can only live for,
hoping there comes another.
I don’t take notice of the people
passing through the doors,
whose appearance would otherwise
have caught my attention
in another day, another life.
(And the coffee doesn’t kick in,
never like I want it to.
It used to be I could have a cup
and the day would flow on
peaceful and understanding
and beautiful some days,
depending on the people,
and the places I decided to go
when I woke up and pulled on my jeans
and brushed my teeth and hair
and gave a concern for where I was headed
or how I was getting there.)

I wait a little longer, after all the people
have gone on to work, and all the noise
is settled into a whisper or a tone
that I simply don’t acknowledge.
I wait a little longer, fingers crossed,
knowing the smile, the bright eyes,
the girl I was with ambition and dreams,
will wake up with that coffee, if she’ll give
the mug and the brew a chance
to really reach in and touch her heart,
warm her soul, make her soft, make her sweet.
If she’ll give it a chance, enjoy it the way
she used to on Sunday mornings and days
spent wondering what to do next—
if she’ll give it a chance, it will heal her,
make a whole of her heart,
take her broken pieces and hand them over
to some friend, some surgeon, to sew them all up
and let them beat accelerated, spirited beats,
all hopped up on caffeine.

September 21, 2008
Chocolates and Tomorrow's News