as slow as snails go

mother can't handle
the truth, that awful

glide of the knife across
the perfect package

only humans will grind
perfect beans into dirt

cook the raw
water it down

jesus christ, mom

he faulted once, twice,
jesus christ, he'll do it again

how good the morning coffee
smells, how sour in the mouth

mother can't handle
no cream, no sugar

mother can't handle real
coffee, the way it tastes

and the way it goes down,
as slow as snails go.