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Defining Me
by Elizabet Clark
Impatient I stand, my hands riding on my hips,
then tapping, now leaning chin upon the counter,
watching the drips parade one drip at a time,
steamy earth black slipping much too slowly.
Pouncing swiftly as the spitting huffing machine
finally delivers the very last of the aromatic brew
pouring into my favorite mug, a gift from my Lover
who wonderfully remembered me admiring it once.
Sugar overflows from my enormous soup spoon,
has to be sweet enough to please a hummingbird,
once full, twice, now stirring with briskness derived
from the caffeinated hope of "Almost ready!"
Now the French Vanilla Creamer, the Good Kind,
Go-out-in-the-middle-of-the-night-if-you-are-out kind,
foundational, philosophical first cause of flavor,
a decadent expense, the only one I allow myself.
Stir gently now, not to squander a careless splash,
lift and hover, breathe deeply, savoring the steam,
perfect sip, roll the taste around the tongue, swallow,
Now I am Myself.
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