I couldn’t say they know what this is. It is love of the simple things, like the steam and the beat. Three cups of coffee to be worn down and over used to present real attachment. They reflect my class. I reflect in their brown steamed addiction. They, like me, belong in this part of the city. To wake up every morning to the whistling call. From the shop it calls to me when feet fall into fuzz.

When people ask, I have them join me to feel the delightful burn of ease. Three cups of coffee one for you, one for you and one for me. They are what the soldiers drank mixed with the dirt on their knees. They are the ones that keep the musicians lyrics a float. They bring use three together. You can see us there forever. Me and my three cups of coffee.

I dread the three cups of withdrawal that grow closer with every sip of steam. Please tell me why this memory will be with me through every hour of every day. Three feelings that should be inside of me more than the memory of a later dependence. They hope.

When the People don’t show and the sidewalk breaks. They will always be sitting they waiting. Those three cups of coffee.