Boot black, chicory black,
deeper than dilated pupil,
darker than a power outage,
blacker than the mood of Monday morning drivers
and late-night Friday office-workers.
Why do you water me down?
Whiten me up?
Pour sugar down my throat?
I'm not meant to be sweet,
Not meant to be yes ma'am or yessir
or any way you like it.
I'm vitality
squeezed, dark nectar
of roasted beans; I'm supposed to sting
and burn a bit as I go down.
I'm your cup of coffee
and I'm meant to be drunk black.