A coffee mug without a handle,
rests on my palm as I wait.
Almost too hot to hold,
almost just not enough.
The windows drenched into translucency,
they lie, almost as if a mirage.
They lie, I think.
A gentle fire crackles to the right,
as I take my last sip.
But the doors won't open, the bell won't ring,
I guess I could wait some more.
Make another cup of coffee.
