The bliss of roasted beans
scenting the air with enticement
which goes to the senses
with intravenous directness,
raising expectations of something
extraordinary experienced.
But when it's made where dit it go?
It got lost, no matter what care
you took to retain it;
no matter what marvellous contraption
you used, or precise methodology
you employed.
What's left in the cup
is prosaic; a shapeless
blob of clay
when you'd expected
a Michaelangelo.
In the mouth there's a taste
which becomes quite essential
but it's the grey flannel trousers
you glimpsed as a child
when taken to see
Father Christmas.
And you know,
once again,
you've been robbed.
The dream's disappeared;
a tide that receded,
Leaving a deposit of mud.
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