You stole from me.

You ruined my morning. You hurt my feelings.
I can't believe you would be that cruel.
You left a hole in my life.

Why didn't you just start a fresh pot of coffee?

This poem was inspired by the wonderful person I work with that took the last of the coffee this morning. Not only did they fail to make a fresh pot so that everyone can enjoy the lifeblood that makes the day happen, they left the burner on, effectively burning the thin layer of coffee that was in the pot and making it disgusting. Guess who cleaned it up. That's right. The temp. Sara. Because I wanted coffee.

Oh wait, I forgot the last line of the poem:


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