I still think squirrels think I am sexually attractive.

I tilt back the coffee mug the top covering a crime. I tilt back the coffee mug with one thing on my mind. I know my coffee is blazing hot. I know where my coffee is not. I think I drank it half way down. I tilt my mug looking for that delicious brown. I tip back the mug further and sweat beads on my neck with fervor, but the coffe won’t come I’m afraid there could be none. But I fear the more I tilt, the prophecy will come to bear, a tidal wave of scalding drink will sear my face and leave no hair. Coffee Poem Could there be a fragile bubble, An iridescent dam of evil? My anticipation starts to double as I wait for it to burst my ego. Is there any coffee at all? Is an esoteric question. How long will I wait for it to fall? I should leave it for history to mention.