Coffee Candy

At the corner of our restaurant table many mornings ago
—While I colored the hippopotamus his natural shade of green—
Your coffee arrives steaming, the smoke pushing its way to the ceiling.
You thank the waitress with the brevity of a dog’s bark.
After a sip, in paternal excitement, you say,
“Son, I have a feeling you would like this—it’s just like candy!”
I stare skeptically as you slide over the mug.
A smell of burnt bark confirmed
That this coffee may not be any different
From the tens of other shots which struck me as disgusting.
But, as a result of your insistence, I raise the beige liquid to my lips
And allow it to spill over my tongue.
The small sip burned my lips and tasted
Unsurprisingly awful.

Pushing the poison back, I shoot a stabbing stare.
But you felt no danger,
Regrasping the cup and smiling between sips.
I was sure you were teasing me.
With furrowed brows I strained my crayon for a deeper shade.

Though, while looking back on these memories,
I can now see that the grin you gave as my face recoiled
Was relief that I was still too young for coffee—
Too young to be numb to bitterness,
Too sensitive to steaming heat,
Still trapped in a world as sweet as candy.

Simon Sniffen is a USC sophomore from Oahu, Hawaii studying Industrial and Systems Engineering.