Injustice in my Coffee

I woke up this morning and tasted injustice in my coffee.

I savored the diligence of the Mayan worker, but I could not remove the oppression left on my tongue.

Exploitation stained my teeth.

There was sweet resistance from the indigenous people, but an aftertaste of political corruption that I could not shake.

There was a hint of poverty yet the warmth of hospitality.

Similar to caffeine, hope kindles another taste.

I held the cup to my lips and took another sip.

It was bitter, so I added more cream.