Press on my neck
In this body-weathered bed, i swirl and splash-
churn an oil-slick sheen over coffee ground sheets.
I try my belly,
neck craning over a hot, lumpy pillow.
The low thread-count folds press on my neck.
I can breathe, but the resentful press is all i know.
Stained-hot ceramic in my grateful hands-
coffee, notes of pepper and acid,
burning my eyes.
I swallow it hot, lumpy.
I can taste it, but the sagging lump is all i feel.
I make the most of it.