Mild Coffee

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Swirls appear in my coffee cup
as I mix in the milk.
Making it weaker, diluting it,
ridding it of substance.
I look around and see the
engorged faces.
They stuff themselves to
the brim with overcooked strands
of family values.
Please and thank you, they say;
conventional, habitual, customary.
Oh no, the pleasure is all mine;
sardonic undertones of rituals and routines.
The milk mixes in and I sip it.
So mild I can barely taste it.





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