Bitter Ritual

The old machine, it wheezed and gave its best,

then died. A gurgling, a final test

of faith, I guess. Just burnt grounds, half-wet.

No dark, hot stream. Nothing to get

me going. The morning's little prayer,

the fumes, the promise hanging in the air

of something solid.

A jolt, a lie

I tell myself before the day runs dry.

Now, just the smell of failure, sharp and stale.

My hand reaches for the mug, but fails.

It's just an empty circle on the counter,

a sad, dark ring, a small encounter

with the nothing that replaces everything.

The silent hum of morning's broken wing.