The clock on the stove is a flat green glare

The clock on the stove is a flat green glare.

Four in the morning is a heavy weight.

I stand in the kitchen and try not to care

that the sun is always running late.

The water drips through the grounds in a slow, black rain.

The gurgle is the only voice in the hall.

I’m drinking to dull a different kind of pain,

watching the steam climb the peeling wall.

The mug is stained from three days of use,

left on a coaster like a dirty prize.

I don’t want the caffeine, I want the excuse

to keep from closing my tired eyes.

There’s an oily ring where the heat has bled,

a dark circle marking the time I’ve lost.

Better to sit with this bitter cup instead

than to face the dream and the morning frost.