Coffee Runs Through My Lineage

By Joey Williams

The pink and orange haloed signs still gleam
On frosted roofs where morning breath collects.
We’ve built religion on caffeine and cream,
Each sip a rite that ancestry respects.

My mother’s voice came steeped in caramel,
My father drove with one hand on his cup.
The drive-thru priestess knew our names so well—
She blessed the lid before we pulled it up.

No siren song, no beans from distant lands,
Can match the comfort of this waxen gold.
We live and die with coffee in our hands,
And generations passed before it cooled.

You’ll find us here, through war, through storm, through rust—
A powdered donut nation built on trust.