We'll dice the coffee

Ask me not to stray the service,
the line for the dark, ground wares -
to transpose one from free to paid
subscription is, well, quite the task for
makers of traipsing and such, as has
been remarked for pastry's end.

Nor has it been said that a tankard of
brown will float a number of seats in
retrospect, in light of dark reprimand of
such privileged few, or as has commonly
been spoken of by the land of news.

We'll keep it here, now, for plentiful skies
will keep dark stains appearing here, there
the freedom dies, it microbes into those
unwashed, the tides of skirts without paths,
tidal red, the skirmish dies here, to see
no more of this.

Cream in it - yes - but nowhere to see how
it garners fans of filtering processes so
tidy as to remake one into a skeleton of self -
made to be remarkable and daft all the same
to management, sadly into the sun it melts.

Breezily the line forms, into parking lines we
meet and accost, civilized are we not to see
a case of brazen stepping over hundreds of
cups, sadly they know not what brew or from
which earthy body it came, up from dust.

Bread, yes. But I'll have the burned stuff, the
one from England that sails past bright waves,
blue skies, to patterns of Caledonia, dancing
past new members, or old who notice the
filters gone, worn as only paper can make us
slice it so it's free and drinkable.

© 2015 Larry Ingram