Coffee

I'm sipping the long overdue cup,
staring at this screen, wondering: why?
Why is it that this mug
filled with rich, dark essence
can keep me sane each day?

Fingers slowly flex, then dance
after just half of that first draught.
The sun doesn't appear overly optimistic,
the sky's blue no longer depresses,
the birds are no longer annoying.

The stuff works deeper into me,
thawing the soul, activating imagination
stirring my hopes back up
and yet, calming me down
from hating the universe for being...
morning people.

Stretching out, sipping and smoking pipe
I let my internal janitor
clear away the cobwebs and clouds
that the night left inside
as the java finds my skull.

The knee feels better after a cup,
the back loosens up enough to bend
and everything begins to mellow.
Others say I'm spinning up
they've never tasted my "dawn desperation".

The stories and ideas flow,
having percolated with the joy juice,
stirred up by just that aroma
filling space around and in me
with hope and some measure of patience...
I freaking hope.

Few laud their mornings like I,
who remembers the cold nights
and that first cup, when I had cash,
to thaw out after sleeping outside
when there was no other place.

It is my one, true wife,
the thing I cannot separate from
save when I mess about with my mistress
that ugly habit of smoking a pipe
of equally rich, black tobacco.

Others can mock me,
friends can tease me,
family hides until that cup is drank,
and the world best not irritate me,
for only coffee and tobacco allow me...
to persevere.

Now, get the hell out of my way,
my cup is empty, and needs refilling.
8September2014 - Dyfedd Rex, on a Moaner's Day.