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This Cup Of Coffee

John Grey

It comes up to me in the morning,
along with that mysterious shine through the window,
sauntering, like it’s wearing some kind
of cowgirl blouse and tight jeans.
It doesn’t just sit beside me.
No, it plunks itself down on the table,
dares me to take a sip.
It’s foreign. Brazilian probably.
And hot and steamy accordingly.
It promises flavor but what it’s really
offering me is a drug.
It knows I’ve just awoken,
that my eyes look like rotted timber,
and my blood barely flows through my veins.
I’m the perfect customer.
I crave what it has to sell.
Sure it’s no more than liquid in a cup.
But it may as well be six booster shots of adrenalin,
or a Cape Canaveral launching pad
with all systems go.
It’s the key in my body’s ignition,
the kick in the ass that gets me going.
Without it, I’m what a corpse would be
if it could move around a little.
So here I am, at 7.00 a.m.,
on my first delectable Java of the morning.
I haven’t dressed. Nor said a word to anyone.
Nor have I even bothered scouring my brain for thoughts.
I’m preparing my frame for a day’s worth of being myself.
And this is the first critical step on the way to who I am.
One cup drunk. You already know it’s me.
Now I do.

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