Prose Poem: Your $4.39 Latte From the Local Roaster Could Soon Cost More. (Coral Murphy Marcos, for the NYT.)

 

The author, in a deep funk.

If an addiction isn't expensive,

what's the fun of it?

That's why I love paying 

one hundred dollars

for a cup of coffee.

Didn't used to be that way.

For a few measly dollars

you could get a good cup

of coffee at any coffee shop.

But now that coffee beans are

worth their weight in gold

and baristas wallow in wealth --

well, a cup of coffee is the

ne plus ultra of the jet set addict.

To feed my appetite

I roll drunks

rob banks

embezzle funds

sell my own organs

resort to blackmail

vote Republican

and print my own money.

I've lost my family

my home

my job

my self respect

and my memory.

I don't have a name

or country of origin

anymore.

All I have is that warm

swirling black brew

in a cheap paper cup

and a barista supplier

who lets me lick her

apron.