Morning Rites

The pot hits the burner, a hollow metallic sound,

While the scent of the beans travels all the way 'round.

I filled up two mugs by the edge of the sink

Before the silence had a chance to sink.

One for the ghost of a person not here,

A habit I’ve carried for more than a year.

I watched the white cream make a slow, oily swirl

Then poured it all down where the drain pipes uncurl.