The coffee is decidedly mediocre.
Still, it beats being dead.
Morbid thoughts? Perhaps.
But then again, you are alive,
three years past surgery
and radiation, and other abuses of a body
in the interest of just this, a chance
to sip mediocre coffee on a rainy morning
and like it.
About this poem
Ties into my essay earlier this morning about the third anniversary of my cancer surgery.