Lament, For Cocoa

The scum has come.
My cocoa’s cold.
The cup is numb,
And I grow old.

It seems an age
Since from the pot
It bubbled, beige
And burning hot —

Too hot to be
Too quickly quaffed.
Accordingly,
I found a draft

And in it placed
The boiling brew
And took a taste
Of toast or two.

Alas time flies
And minutes chill;
My cocoa lies
Dull brown and still.

How wearisome!
In likelihood,
The scum, once come,
Is come for good.

by John Updike