Morning Coffee, Percolated

Growing up, I would lie in bed, warm and too early to rise,

and listen below to my father making coffee,

no Mr. Coffee’s steady stream of coffee draining

into a glass carafe, but percolated coffee,

an old aluminum coffee pot, dulled and spouted,

black handled, and worn, crystal knobbed,

filled with water splashing fresh and cold from the tap

and placed atop the stove on low heat, blue flamed gas

barely touching. The coffee grounds went unmeasured,

eye-balled, knowing by sight the right amount, more

or less, shoveled into the “guts” he plopped into the pot,

the faint click heard below of the lid snapping into place;

and then the waiting, busying himself in morning ritual,

and the low rumble of water left to boil and rise,

carried up to burst, a tiny explosion popping,

water sprayed to filter itself, dripping back black,

turning water, fresh and cold, to coffee,

black and hot, rising tart to our noses, pungent, awakened,

now, to strong and steaming coffee poured into a mug,

sugared and creamed, the soft clink of his spoon

stirring, stirring, stirring, a sign of his day beginning,

alone in the early morning, readying himself for us.