A Cup of Coffee

I can’t seem to find too much of a way out of this, other than Lucinda Williams, the occasional drink, a few hours with a half-ass friend. I’m going south for the rest of the winter. A dirty drinking place where there’s no woman that casts dipsersions on my character for the desire to skip all that the rest of the world seems to hold so dear. I’m making my way south on a fast train with big wheels that roll over all that is in sight and half that isn’t. I’ll see you there if you make it time, because I ain’t staying nowhere too long and you are nothing but a pawn, I’ll tell you.
But perhaps it is beautiful in the north this time of the year. Or is it just cold? I might head that way, as I know what heat feels like on the skin at night, and the way a sweaty body moves through the atmosphere. I know the way that ginger feels when rubbed on bare skin, and cinnamon. And I can imagine a way in which all of this, and rum, can help to keep the kids quiet tonight if we play our cards right.
I take your right hand and make a crustacean. I take your left, and of it make a paper airplane. We are now flying south of the equator, north of the capricornious tropic, south of cancer, or somewhere noone has been. I might make a million being something that I am not, but a cup of coffee would still be nice.