Regarding Coffee

The coffee practically pours itself into the perfectly tempered wineglass. It sits in it's vessel still and complacent. The coffee feels a sense of pomp and fanciness which translates well to my palate. The coffee says I am not engineered for this kind of container, but I enjoy it none the less.

The coffee shares stories of the old days when it was poured into coconut shells. How it was heated over a fire inside a terracotta or copper bowl. How, once, many men died to obtain it's bounty. How fires spread through the fields to prevent it's fruition. How coffee, like gold or tobacco or religion, was fought for, tooth and nail, like any other commodity.

The coffee goes on to explain how some men drank it in excess to obtain mental heights that today would only achieve insanity in order to defend it's place in the village. And how, one day, the spears and sledges no longer worked. How the white man came peering through the foliage, armed with guns and ammunition. How the bean was swept from the plants, carted away, and sold for profits equal to a thousand canoes and goats.

The coffee boasts that it is older than ale or even tea. The coffee suggests it is older than man itself, having been enjoyed by the hapless and humble animals long before man came to manipulate and brew it's potential. I sneer down at it and gulp it's volatile history. My stomach responds with outrage, but quickly comes to terms with it.