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This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “i am not alone” Down in the Dirt, v182 (the April 2021 Issue)  Order the paperback book: 
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Black Coffee
Bluford Birdsong
That tears it! Straight black coffee. Janice would laugh, always on my ass about my sweet tooth. Here I am at this greasy spoon, literally holding a greasy spoon and stirring nothing but regret into this 30 weight coffee. No cream! No sugar! What kind of diner runs out of cream and sugar? Maybe Janice and my cardiologist have conspired on this no longer fine morning to teach me a lesson, or maybe my sweet tooth has simply caught up with me, and I have taken all that this woeful diner has.
Is that possible? Have I single-handedly used every packet of Sugar in the Raw, Turbinado, Imperial Pure and Domino White? These names sound like street slang for heroin to me. The irony hits me as I begin to think about the cream. Have I made tiny dead soldiers of a thousand half and half thimbles? I now imagine tiny buxom milkmaids crying over the travesty, realizing that their frantic bucket filling has been in vain, and we have indeed run out of cream.
What can I do with black coffee? I don’t care if it puts hair on my chest. I am 68 years old. Hair on my chest I don’t need. Lead in my pencil maybe. Black coffee? Are we at war? Are we rationing? Are we doe-eyed children in black and white photos, restricted to so many ounces of meat and teaspoons of sugar a week? Am I doing my bit for king and country? What is this nonsense? Black coffee. No.
Now my mood matches the color of my coffee. Perhaps it always has, as if a little cream could lighten my day. Coffee the color of beach sand taking me back to Boca, the condo, grit under our sandals on the tile floor no matter how much we swept, the two winters we had before I lost you once and for all. I stir and sip and stir some more, not knowing what I hope to stir up, trouble probably.
The waitress is pleasant. It’s a safe word, pleasant. She reminds me of an old Tom Waits song. “Maxwell House eyes, marmalade thighs, and scrambled yellow hair”. Something like that. She is apologetic for the lack of fixins’ for my cup of mud. I leave her a 10, no reason to have both of our days ruined.
The glass door jingles mockingly as a pull instead of push, knowing that I will try again tomorrow. It’s still early. Maybe I can find a dog to kick. Just kidding J. I know you love dogs.
