Dregs and Dreams by Steve Gerson, bottom of the pot coffee

The neon glare through the bug-splattered window suggested life, but I was trapped inside the diner by lies and lassitude, nursing a cheap cup of bad coffee more dregs than dreams.

Hunched, alone, I could see my reflection refracted in the coffee's sheen swirling like an oil slick dragging me down in an undertow. I looked up. The neon blinked in intermittent gasps.

“Where to go next?” “What to do next?” I asked myself.

I'd made mistakes before. Many. Often. I'd said, “I'll try harder next time” and failed. I'd said, “I won't do that again” and failed. I was recycling bad decisions, stuck in a constant pattern like a sewing machine, needle going up and down, up and down, the stitch always the same, the design never changing. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

All she'd asked for was hope and not even much of that, maybe a teaspoon rather than a ladle, just a taste, not even three courses.

But here I was, looking at my distorted reflection. And the coffee was becoming cold as loss.

The diner's waitress stopped by my table, a carafe half filled with bottom-of-the-pot coffee, and nodded at me, suggesting a refill.

"Hit me again" I said.

About the author 

 

Steve Gerson writes poetry and flash about life's dissonance. He has published in many journals plus his eight chapbooks: Once Planed Straight,  Viral, And the Land Dreams Darkly, The 13th Floor; What Is Isn’t, There Is a Season, Have Not; and Who Am I Today. 

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