No clear, original thought --
Nor even muddled, stale one.
How does one work through mist and fog?
I am weary, sleepy, achy,
With pen too heavy to lift.
Each eyelash weighs at least a pound.
Two or three mundane thoughts
Play indoor tag,
Ignoring my demand for discipline.
Should I succumb to pillow’s siren call?
Should I wrest control of my (ersatz) mind?
Perhaps .. Perhaps coffee will rouse
Reluctant grey cells.
Coffeepot in hand, water running …
Will coordination last long enough
to fill reservoir?
Decisions, decisions … How much?
By default, “How much can the pot brew?”
Head bowed, arms braced on counter,
I listen to urgent burbling.
Bleary eyes stare … “Up to there”
When black reaches imaginary line,
I grip handle, pull forward.
Thank God, there’s automatic “hold.”
No three towels needed to sop an uninterrupted stream.
Oversize mug at the ready,
Both hands steadying the pot,
I pour that first cup.
Ahhhh --- nectar of the gods!
A few more sips and even my inner muse might waken.
Boot up computer.
Check today’s “to do” list.
Now then, which job shall I tackle first?