The pink flask has seen prettier days. Sun through car windows bleaches out metallic finish. It is pink-ish, matt, mostly looks like a Caucasian prosthetic, but still we are fond of it. It keeps the coffee in warm proximity, here in the car café.
The cup twists off. Silver shines under the pink, patched, a map: silver lands in a pink ocean. Espresso is the magma of my little cup planet.
Rain distends the river again, overspills, over fields: the fat streams flow.
Even the moon is swollen.
We see the lower curve of it on the last stretch home.
|The flask in its former incarnation, bringing 9-5 coffee access|