This morning was like all the ones before,
except, of course, how I forgot the all-
important step of pouring coffee grinds
into this old coffeemaker of mine.
Missing was the familiar deep-rich waft
of the dark-roasted Colombian bean.
Waiting for me, instead, when the machine
finished--something warmed and murky, but not
coffee, not anything remotely close.
I felt a moment's pity for myself
and for the ruined, empty, wasted filter,
its recycled life, raison d'etre,
now in the trash atop yesterday's used
filter--smug, proud, smirking, clutching its dregs.
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