Stuck.
A small desire
(coffee, maybe pastry)
A Herculean labor.
Such histrionics,
A drama worthy of greatness,
And I, jet-lagged, ordinary at best,
Blindly stabbing.

Yet, it arrives:
Mousse au chocolat
Crème brûlée
Je n’sais quoi

And coffee,
A small, unassuming demi-tasse,
Ordnance as yet
Unexploded.