Instant Coffee
it always ends the same
too much sticky-sweet silt
lying at the bottom of
a round ceramic basin.
a funny kind of river
once lived there;
tar black,
with swirling hints of deeper cream
something you might scry in,
if you had the right affinity
haven't most of us sat
on an off day,
feeling lost & helpless to the world,
starring into this brown-black oblivion,
seeking answers that only lie within ourselves
it reminds me of regret;
this bottom layer
clinging to everything it touches,
something we're never able to completely wash away
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