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.

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