A morning ritual is a must-have drink,
Hot and steaming from the pot,
A perfect fit for my thirsty slot,
Anything else is a hoodwink.
The habitual drink is no addiction,
But a pause to uplift spirits,
A boost to get through the thickets,
Liquid levity of some conviction.
At cup’s bottom some sludge is left,
A residue I wash away,
The thought and tongue are so deft.
To quickly the respite will not delay,
It seems gone as in theft,
Taken from this world, it is so fey.
Francis Conlon is a retired and recovering teacher. For the past 20 years, he has worked as a seasonal river ranger and boat inspector at Yampa River State Park in northwest Colorado. He has published in the local Valley Voice and in Westward Quarterly. He currently lives in Salt Lake City, Utah.