Coffee In The Morning

I am having a coffee first thing —
actually, second thing — in fact third
or fourth thing, maybe more things
than I can or should count —
but it’s a good cup of coffee
indeed

and the first thing I feel as a thing
unto itself, a primary thing beyond
dishwashing and blood checking and
worrying, always worrying — a good
cup of coffee, no sugar, a little milk,
feels like I’m home at last although
I never left and I’m still here in my chair
and wearing the same clothes, the same
silly glasses — still worrying about money
and how my body aches
though I don’t tell
a soul;

still I wonder how my dead friends
got through it when they died and do they
even know? Maybe none of them knows
they have passed. Maybe I don’t know
I’ve passed as well. The coffee tastes
remarkable and I am relaxed, after all —
far more relaxed than I was not five minutes
ago.

This is good coffee. I will have
another inexhaustible cup and then another
until I dissolve, unconcerned, into
the blue and black and sudden brightness
of the sweet day and sweeter
night.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T