Spilt coffee

Flat but filled

the coffee spilt,

spread and grew to an ocre stain 

on an orange kaftan. 

Hard 

but smelt of an afternoon spent 

in concrete corners,

didn’t cost a cent. 

It ran down legs

onto wooden floors, 

splashed and spread against the doors. 

Sticky and wet,

it left its scent

despite towels which soak away the mess. 

I wash my dress in buckets of red, 

till it looks the same as it always did,

though I know it will never smell as fresh

for the spilt coffee I can never forget.