The pot sits on the stove from yesterday’s ritual.
Unscrew her waist, and pour out her dregs.
Rinse, scrub, wash, all in a decaf haze.
Carefully measure cold water to the nipple,
Add the filter that dips down and
Drinks that water from her depths.
Measure out one, two, three spoonfuls
From the cherry red bag in the freezer
Into that loving filter.
Screw on her top, and put her on high.
The cold kettle still has drips of washing,
Sizzling and popping meeting the glow of the coils.
While you wait, warm the milk,
Froth it into abandon, watch as it grows
Into a luscious heaven; 6 inches of pure white cloud.
You hear the start of a boil in her bosom;
The small bubbling that will lead to-
Eruption.
Inside the pot is a flowing volcano,
Ready to destroy my fog and warm my hands.
When she spits her final splutters, she’s ready.
Slowly pour into a wide mug, the thick
Black nectar, concentrated and pure.
Cloud it with a foam blanket for warmth.
Sit, sip. Enjoy a slow transition
From hazy ritualist to
Fresh morning observationist.