Mr. Refilled-The-Coffee-Pot

Lyrics

It’s 10:14 AM. Fluorescent hum.
Someone left a ghost in the carafe.
Just enough to stain the bottom, a bitter little thumbprint.
Could walk away. Everyone does.
Could leave the warning for the next one down the line.
But he tilts it, gets the last dark drop.
And the water goes in. The filter fits the basket.
The grounds are measured out by a hand that doesn't need to look.
He's Mr. Refilled-The-Coffee-Pot, a Tuesday morning saint.
He's not waiting for a thank you, he's not keeping score.
Just honoring the office's smallest covenant.
Just making sure there's more.
The cupboard door squeaks a little. Folgers can, red plastic lid.
Four scoops, level. A muscle memory thing.
Heard a guy named Dave complain once, back in '09.
Been doing it ever since.
The water pitcher's full. He fills the reservoir to the line.
Presses the button, red light comes on.
Walks out before the gurgle even starts.
And the water goes in. The filter fits the basket.
The grounds are measured out by a hand that doesn't need to look.
He's Mr. Refilled-The-Coffee-Pot, a Friday afternoon saint.
He's not waiting for a thank you, he's not keeping score.
Just honoring the office's smallest covenant.
Just making sure there's more.
It’s a tiny thing, you know? Not a fire, not a flood.
Just the difference between a good minute and a bad one.
The difference between a place that works and a place that's just… broken down.
A hundred little paper cuts of "not my problem."
He stitches one of them up.
And the water goes in. The filter fits the basket.
The grounds are measured out by a hand that doesn't need to look.
He's Mr. Refilled-The-Coffee-Pot, a saint in bad office light.
He's not waiting for a thank you, he's not keeping score.
Just honoring the office's smallest covenant.
Just making sure there's more.
Back at his desk, spreadsheet's open.
Down the hall, a hiss and a click.
The smell of something new starting.
The smell of something shared.