In the Break Room

At the place where I work
(grudgingly, soul-sappingly, necessarily),
there's a coffee pot.
A very large,
very heavy,
community coffee pot.
It hates me.
Sees me coming
when it's my turn
to empty it out
and make more
(abominable, weak, bitter) coffee.
And
it
laughs.
Because it knows
I hate this place
and I hate its coffee
and I hate lifting that damn thing
over the sink.
So as I spill
coffee
(horrible, gritty, burnt coffee)
all over the floor
and the counter
and my uniform,
I know
that goddamn coffee pot
is enjoying every minute of it.
But at least I have
some kind of routine,
and I know that someone
(okay, something)
is thinking
of me.
It counts.