Three Taps

The morning light,

thin and grey,

stretches across the counter.

I stir the dark coffee,

a small whirlpool,

then lift the spoon.

Three quick, soft taps

on the ceramic rim.

One, two, three.

A rhythm only I hear,

a tiny bell

that settles the drop,

before I drink.

No one has ever watched this.

A private punctuation,

a small breath

before the day begins.

A kind of quiet promise

to myself.