Ode To an Instant Coffee

A poem

I wake, wistful for the first lukewarm sip
Of brown, brewed comfort; braving the Winter chill,
I wrap myself in woollen layers that hold and mold
My morning self into the image of a living man.

To the kitchen now, a silent shadow, 
I go to work my witchery. First:
The soft glow of the stove-top globe; then
the gentle click of the kettle switch; now
the water boils and toils to life, 
Beckoning my hands in welcome with its warm breath. 

Now a pouring of the milk; 
Now a heaping of the rocks;
Now a stirring and a working of the magic,
I shiver as my small cauldron swirls and bubbles
As if summoning some amphibious god. 

And divine it is!
The weak-bodied taste of long-life milk;
The bland, bitter taste of magnificent mud;
They overwhelm my senses with delight,
And fill me to the brim with strange ambition. 

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