Junkie

One
bean
escaped
to the floor,
the others made it
through the funnel to my grinder.
I am troubled seeing it lying there at my feet.
Like its fellows it ripened high in the Andes under the Equatorial sun,
it had travelled too far to end up in my rubbish.
Retrieved, washed, towel-dried with love,
I grind it to dust.
Narcotic
coffee
my
kick.