From sleep to wake she mutters.
Her mind stalls, mumbled words she stutters.
The walls guide her down their dim lit hall.
It is but a crawl, as her coffee does call.
No automatic drip, no self-timed event.
Morning ritual, to her time well spent.
From beginning to end, that old coffee pot.
Guarantees , that her java stays hot.
So, before her day starts, there is one thing for sure.
She will always partake, of her percolated, coffee, cure.
Copyright © Scott Howard Myers The Gypsy King