Stratford-upon-Avon, United Kingdom. There is a saying that goes like this: “You don’t know what you’ve got, until it’s gone.” And let me tell you, ay, there’s the rub. When you first buy your coffee in the morning the possibilities seem endless, even on a Monday. But then time, time always comes in to destroy that which is perfect. We are time’s subjects, and time bids be gone.
The delicious flavour, the brilliance of the milky foam abounding, the perfect warmth – Where have you gone? O, untimely death, how thou pain’st me!
Why have you left before your time? Like a temporary exhibition at the Guggenheim, that I didn’t have a dime to check out. For ever and a day without your enzymes, with all hope lost and just a couple of rhymes to remind me of the good times. How to do such bitter business alone? Hours on end at my desk, on the phone, without a sip of your thick foam – an orphan child without a home.
If I were a poet, I’d write you a Sonnet to honour your brief life, to draw you a portrait. Hear me! O, hear me! Sweet Mistress of the good taste: