Morning Coffee

I’m woken by the aroma of coffee.

Somehow, that flavorful odor

can reach from a kitchen sideboard

to a man, one flight up,

as he yawns and sniffs.

I have it with a grain or two of sugar

and enough drops of water

to turn its color into that of a grizzly’s coat.

After one sip, the sleep still within me

is put on notice.

After two, my consciousness springs to attention.

By three, my blood is singing

like the robins and cardinals in my backyard treetops.

The pan sizzles in the background.

Bacon and eggs pop and fizz and gurgle.

Without coffee, I wouldn’t hear.

Without coffee, I’d barely notice the one

who’s preparing this morning feast.

Without coffee, I’d only have half clue

to who I am.

The morning light checks in now and then.

“Is he cognizant of his surrounds?” it asks.

“Can he make sense when he speaks?”

It asks these questions on behalf of the sun.

Old Sol seeks my permission for the day to begin.

---

John Grey is an Australian poet, US resident, recently published in New World Writing, North Dakota Quarterly and Tenth Muse. Latest books, “Between Two Fires,” “Covert,” and “Memory Outside The Head” are available through Amazon. Work upcoming in Haight-Ashbury Literary Journal, Birmingham Arts Journal, La Presa and Shot Glass Journal.