in the hour of waking
there is the ritual of divine morning light.
my bare feet, pedaling hard and clumsily
against the ice cold tile.
my senses foggy, sleep still penetrating them
until I smell
the blessed smell
of black grinds and water dripping slowly
into a 1970’s diner mug.
the one’s with the fat lip
are the best to rest my own lips upon
while I taste the heavenly taste
of my morning ritual
in the faded yellow light.