a poem about coffee

my son pretends to serve it from his plastic kitchen. "daddy likes coffee," he says. i drink the invisible blend of aromatic flavor carefully from the tiny red, plastic cup he hands to me. i burn my damn tongue anyway, spilling some on my trousers before going off to another evening meeting. my wife laughs because i managed to avoid staining the new carpet, because there is no coffee. there is only imagination and memory to taste, burn, and stain. but that is enough. as i walk out the door jonah says, "mommy drinks tea."