Morning's Hum

The low grind, a rough, morning song,

not quite awake, but almost there.

That first dark smell, where it belongs,

a promise hanging in the cool air.

More than a drink, it’s the slow start,

the quiet turning of a day's first page.

A bitter comfort, a steady art,

to brace the nerves, to set the stage.

It’s routine, yes, a kind of faith,

in what comes next, though nothing's clear.

A dark, hot truth, escaping death

for another day, holding off the fear.