I have been drinking coffee for as long as I can remember.

When I was old enough, Parent would say: “Go get me a cup of Coffee.”

Often my name would be called, and we do not say, “What?” to Parent.

You, child- you come when you are called.

And I have always known that it was to be Maxwell House French Roast.

Black.

Two teaspoons of sugar.

When no one was watching, I would take a sip- to make sure it was just so.

I would deliver it to Parent

my little hands

holding the cup,

savoring the warmth like the hugs

I never received.

Perhaps, this cup-

will earn one?

But now, in my adulthood

each morning, in my home

I prefer a medium or medium dark roast

with chocolate and syrupy undertones

maybe some hint of dried fruit.

Brew it strong, I want a generous splash of cream but

I still want to taste the coffee.

During the week, my Beloved brews it just right

before he leaves for work.

And when I awaken, I can smell it so gooood.

As I drink it, it warms me like the hugs he gives freely.

On weekends he brings me a cup that is warm, yes

but not as warm

as the hands that give and receive it

and certainly not as hot

as the looks that pass between us.

This cup won’t earn love,

for their is no need.

In our house,

Love is given and flows

Freely.