there is the ritual of divine morning light. 

my bare feet, peddling hard and clumsily 

against the ice cold tile 

my senses foggy, sleep still penetrating them 

until I smell

the blessed smell 

of the black grinds and the water dripping slowly 

into a 1970's diner mug. 

the one's with the fat lip 

for those are the best to rest my own lips on 

while I taste the heavenly taste

of my morning ritual 

in the faded yellow light.