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All gone, the stripes on mug, and coffee.
Ground up, my morning thoughts. Handle
the wake-up-beauty kiss; source of mystery.

What’s in his cup? Mind’s empty. Fill it up.
I don’t carry but one; a mindful wake-me-up.

He’s dragged himself out of bed; drugged
with sleepiness; purposed to begin his grind.

He doesn’t dig coffee in the morning. Regular
routine to pour himself into his swivel chair,
stare at the screen, that sometimes screams.

Only on Sundays, in class, does he serve himself.
He pours a big cup that hardly lifts his lids up.

On Sundays, sometimes (always have my first cup
at home) pop a pill, then drink another cup in class.

How did people do without coffee? Well, let me tell you:
Eutychus nodded off, then fell into a deep sleep, then
slipped out the window, after Paul talked on and on.

What a story! Three stories! Not Paul’s! Yes Paul’s!
Appalling, to fall asleep and die. Paul said no, and
he embraced the young man, who was made alive
again. So, I drink up and don’t sit in the window seat.

It’s hot there, in my coffee cup, cooled by cream,
sweetened with words of God.  I fan myself
with a paper plate. This mystery date, this kiss
of fate, this love ensues for God and each other.

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