Read Poems by
Scott Howard Myers
The Gypsy King
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.