The coffee pot sits
unused
unloved.

It waits to be filled
with water
and bean.

And then when it comes
it’s bitter
and black.

But it feels so good
against
the glass.

This crusty carafe
gets poured
and poured

until nothing’s left
but grounds
and hope

brewed by the cup
for mugs
and mouths

every time happy
to wake
me up.

I love you, coffee maker.