Stockholm Syndrome
When the smell of a new roast
and the itch of grey cotton against my shoulders
stir a tranquility
equivalent to that from
lavender incense.
Correlation
ironic, obscured,
like a poem held captive between 4 and closing,
where syntax is found inside
something prolific,
like fine coffee grinds
or an early paycheck.
The decaf burns my skin as I
pour an 8 oz to go
and it spills over the side –
I don’t mind all that much.