It was the first time
I made coffee in a clear glass mug.
It was fun
and a bargain.
The gray coffee beans I bought
were absolutely fresh,
fragrant,
and cheap.
I poured the boiling water with all
its bubbles, sounds, and hisses
into the mug.
No color yet.

I put in a sugar cube
and couldn't resist watching
the cube slowly dissolve and turn
into an irregular shape.
Sweetness traveled
to every molecule of water without
muddying it,
like an affectionate touch of
a child's hand traveling to every
corner of grandfather's soul.
It was beautiful.

I dropped in a few beans of
roasted coffee.
Light brown color emerged,
turning slightly darker around
the beans.
To my delight a display of
Grey shades began. The infinite
variety of shades between
black and white fascinated me.

A stem of color rose in
the center, branching irregularly
here and there.
There were shapes like flowers,
and thick dots like coffee fruit.
It was indeed a branch of
Arabian coffee with flowers
and seeds.

Soon more color rose from
the bottom, adding richness and
expression to the plant.
I added a few drops of rum at the
side to make it a coffee royal.
The plant trembled, and
strangely enough
it now looked like a human figure.

Was it a coffee picker
from India or somewhere?
It indeed was a coffee picker
with reed thin legs,
a loin cloth, no shirt and no waist.
(The likes of which you see
sometimes on tv to evoke sympathies
in the would-be donors)
I picked up the mug and had a
small sip. Curiously enough the
coffee picker was still there
although slightly thinner. After
another sip the figure was
still recognizable.

Shall I swallow it?
Why not. I smiled.
If those burger sellers can make
baby faces on the burgers and then
lure my children to eat them, why not?
Children, after all, are much more
tender hearted.

The thought suddenly made me
upset. What are they doing to our
children?

Still engrossed in the baby faces
and burgers I picked the mug to finish
the remaining coffee.
What am I doing to the coffee
picker?