honey whiskey

‘Clink.’

The ice shifts in my coffee,

a drink I still barely appreciate.

The glass is fogged with chill,

less-than-halfway filled with rich brown bitterness.

Should I draw a smile?

Honestly, ice hurts my teeth

and I don’t like it

and I wish I could brush that petty preference off

as a hereditary trait

but despite my father’s love

of warm socks and slippers

the thermostat set to a comfortable 73 degrees,

he always made exception for ice

in his drink.

Hundreds, perhaps a thousand of times

I’ve sat on a scratched up stool

at the counter

discussed the meaning of

that line

in that song we both love,

listened to him recount stories from his youth,

and told him about my own

while he emptied the ice tray into a thick glass.

Over to the fridge now,

he pulls his prepared drink of choice

and tells me about the his student with so much

potential

but can’t seem to balance his responsibilities

he empathizes.

And his golden wedding ring that needs polishing

rings gently as he grips the glass

joined with a chorus of clinking ice

as black tea anoints every centimeter

He laughs as he shovels in generous mounds of cane sugar

and I give my frank editorial on current events.

We’re all going to die, anyway.

The sugar snow globes around for a while

then settles at the bottom

refusing to disintegrate in the frigid drink.

He must not mind.

A ring of water has formed on the tile

as he lifts to takes his first sip.

I could hardly appreciate tea then,

in my youth.

But I was glad he enjoyed it.

The ice in my coffee is nearly melted now.

It’s solid, present state

slipped away before I knew it.

It turned rich brown caffeine

into the color of cheap whisky

It’s seems I’ve lost my moment.

But even now,

it serves a purpose.

The flavor is gone

but the drink will go down smooth.