Gotta make some coffee. It’s my first thought as the sublime sunrise
creeps up over the water’s edge to smack me in the face again.
We have the bedroom curtains, the rods too.
But fuck me if we’ve hung ‘em yet.
I tell myself that’s what the coffee’s for.
Up-n-shuffle. Bathroom first. Spend an extra minute washing my hands
Aren’t we all paranoid these days? I tell myself again, that’s
what the coffee’s for. Focus. On the good stuff.
Empty yesterday’s grounds. Wash the pot.
Fill the machine with water.
Unfold a filter, spoon out the grounds.
But I don’t hit “Brew.” Not yet.
I hold my hands out over the coffeepot, the filter, the coffee
I say a prayer of gratitude. Thoughts and prayers, I know, but I do
for the bean farmers, that they may know what a gift they cultivate
for the roasters, for the factory food packers
the grocery truck driver, the stock clerk
the checkout girl
Each one of them played a vital role
It reads like a walk-on in the script, maybe
But individual hands
Brought me and my coffee together today
Then I press the button.
Oh. I, uh, plug the machine in.
The switch has already been flipped
the water rumbles cheerfully.
Why didn’t I check it?
I did the same thing yesterday.
All over the world, in every moment
Strangers unite me with my day, every day
I hold them in my heart, sipping solace from my thermos
as I read Kerouac’s poetry on the southbound train.
It’s been hours now, and my coffee’s still hot.