a poem by colleague Sarah Gerig

When I move between worlds
my coffee always tastes bad.

I open the coffeemaker to dump in my grounds,
just like I did in my other world.

But my scoop is new — larger and deeper —
and I have to mentally adjust.

But my coffee is an unfamiliar brand,
with an unfamiliar flavor.
Will it be strong and bitter,
too heady and heavy,
turning my stomach with its bitterness?
Will it be weak and golden,
unable to renew my vigilance
and fill my mouth with its fullness?

When I move between worlds
the first cup is always disappointing to me
even when everyone else is licking their lips.
For I have not acquired the taste
for the coffee in this place.

When I move between worlds, the coffee tastes bad.

But before long, I learn
which brand suits my style
which scoop measures perfection
which mug fits best in my hand.

Then I know that I am home.