The very tragic tale of the one-cup coffee pot (that Mr. Nice forgot!)

She sits, pending, in the corner
a siren once seductive,
now abandoned for sleeker, more efficient models.

A snaking tail protrudes, coiling around her body
its two prongs, devil-like,
poised in resentful wait.

Her silver arm extends
in a beckon once inviting,
now only a crooked testimony

to how one,
nearly comatose, perhaps
would reach for her bloodless, bewitching form,

removing her molded polypropylene coronet
to pour moist, blackened grittiness into the dark orifice below
reaching for the pinpoint of migraine-inducing infrared,

to induce the drip-drip of liquid carcinogens
- akin to draining gutter contents after a flash flood -
into the crystal chamber just big enough for one
solitary
cup
of bitterness -

A cavern now sullied by a glaze of dead skin cells and miniscule pollen fibers,
a tell-tale whorl of a stain
the faded lipstick print of an open-mouth kiss.

A cavern that now only holds such treasures
As headless, withered jewels of insects
Ladies adorned in red and black with filmy, crumpled sashes...

Instead of enticing liquidated cinders.

The damsel sits, pending, in the corner.
Forever in wait.

Should you wish to draw her out,
to ignite her inner mechanisms into caffeinated frenzies once again -
Tread carefully.

Pay close attention to the warning
inscribed on her pallid shoulder:

"Caution:
Relieve pressure through steam tube before removing cap or brew basket."

A worthy piece of advice
when dealing with any
tempestuous vessel.

-Siri Hammond (02/12/09)