My Coffee.

I poured cream in my coffee but

it didn’t look right.

Not the cream, it wasn’t curdled

but the whole thing. The act of pouring.

The ritual of coffee was somehow alien.

The cup had too much history.

Maybe because the early morning is as

heavy with humidity as the night before.

Only one bird calls quietly with half a heart

into the stillness broken by rhythmic drops of

early rain from the eaves

outside my studio window.