Careful, hot
said the paper cup
but I refused the warnings
and drank it down
A dollar-fifty
of someone else's money
for the java I drank
It's now nowhere to be found
The only remnant
is the burn on my tongue
and the taste in my mouth
Not a beret in sight
nor a slam poet
I don't hear classical
I don't hear rhymes
Just the twang of a steal guitar
quietly fighting to be heard
over the gossip of small towners
in a local coffee shop

10/26/2002

Posted on 10/27/2002
Copyright © 2026 John Harder