When I don’t finish my coffee, brooding black, concealing the bottom of the cup

you look at me and say the price of a cup of coffee is on the rise as crops are damaged by dryness and frost.

You’re quick to guilt trip me as if my fears of what lurks within the dregs are stupid, ill thought out

and frivolous. Disrespecting coffee beans making the brew. As if I’m a Black diva

forgetting my place like transplanted lilies still expected to thrive and recycle just for you

for the chance of being somewhere that you might look upon them with favour as you are the master.

I stare into the dark liquid. Deciding not to go back into the cup as my heart jerks in my teeth like freakish weather.