My cold black coffee makes me think of perplexing minimalist "works" at MOCA and MAM, fine as intellectual extensions producing beautiful exercises in art speak but rarely moving or even engaging as art itself: a sliced canvas, a string of fiberglass. I also think my boss shouldn't be so cheap; after a year I no longer search the cabinets for non-dairy creamer, which is why my coffee gets cold; as with those museum pieces, I lose interest if nothing's put into it. When the union forms, I'll demand Rothko-grade java at least.