The Cost of Coffee Grounds

As with an embroidery thread,
a little less of me
pulls through
each time.
I leave
       a
             listless
       trail,
which wouldn’t exist,
if I’d only lift my tail.
And yet,
it drags betwixt my legs.
Where I simply wish,
I’d been gifted a fissure instead.
But fret not…
My thoughts,
a cost of coughing down the coffee grounds,
come wrought with rotten spots,
brought by all the time I’ve lost.
Drawing clear lines,
often got me caught and crossed.
So now,
with all this mop water in my trough,
I’d prolly drop to knees,
forget my legs,
and beg for fucking dregs.