The first thought not the sun but how

The first thought, not the sun, but how

the pot will brew, dark, thick, and deep.

A habit worn, a binding vow,

the secrets that I have to keep

until that first hot, bitter sip.

A jolt, a current, through the brain.

It anchors me, this morning trip,

against the rising, duller pain

of being awake, before I'm ready.

It’s not just taste, or caffeine's hum.

It's holding steady, slow and steady.

The day's beginning, overcoming some

resistance, just to start the day.