Another Cup

From time to time,

I have flashes of dissociation,

a third person view of consciousness

that makes me wonder:

What even is

the point of it all?

Why is it that I see what I see,

and not the sights of another?

Why did my consciousness land in someone so…

me?

Then other times,

I disregard all that metaphysical bullshit

and have another cup of coffee.

Cup of Coffee

At the bottom

of this cup of coffee,

I see reflected in the dregs

my schlubby mug.

Unshaven and saggy-eyed,

I look as if I haven’t slept right

in years.

Tired eyes stare back at me

from the bottom of the cup.

Blurry, distorted,

the out-of-focus face begs for a fresh

cup of coffee.