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.

   
First published in The New Yorker, May 14, 1955 p163

Retrieved from Verse (1965), p28