With a twist of my wrist
I will start that water flowing.
The sink is a magical river.
It will come splashing in the carafe
and though my eyes aren’t opened yet
but I know the correct volume by feel.
The machine drinks the water all the way up
With a quiet Gurgle gurgle swallow.
it settles in the tank.
I Cross the kitchen again,
it’s extra-long in the early-morning:
I reach the fridge. Open the top door.
There is the blast of cold from the freezer;
grounds are not where they are supposed to be.
I swear to myself in the dark empty morning.
Before uncovering them behind the broccoli.
Return to the empty table before the machine.
My silver scoop is a holy object.
Filling the filter is a sacred act.
I depress the button.
Red light behind it fills my eyeballs
in the predawn dusk.
Listen? Did you hear that.
Grumblings, snorts, almost.
A whisky-swoosh sound,
the first drips, down, down, down.
They are not just water anymore.
Maybe this day will be worth it after all.
The mug is a chalice in my hand?
How it did it even get there?
I pour it full before it the coffee done.
Somebody will complain, later
about the drops that burned on the plate below.
Just a splash of cream,
then the sugar atop:
The house is so silent it makes a sound like radio station static
the granules penetrate the liquid’s surface tension.
I sip it,
almost too-hot, perfect.
and I am transformed.
Tags: coffee, coffee machine, dawn, making cofee, morning, tired, wake up, waking up
