They sit huddled, two, three or sometimes four
round a table and sip, as secrets are told,
sip, dissected, sip, part resolved, swallowed.
Intense, all else excluded.
Then a sigh, a comforting touch,
burdens eased, cups removed.
They sit relaxed or so it seems and sip again
from the second cup of liquid black or milky brown
with froth on top - a dash of chocolate.
Cares left behind.
Victims (willing) to this mocha berry.
They laugh again, are frivolous, energy restored.
‘Yes,’ they say when all that’s left are grounds in a cup,
‘we’ll meet tomorrow’. ‘I’ll give you a call’.
And call they will.
For the essence will be gone and the next cup will call.