Mugs

mugs

The coffee pot
arranged last night
brews below me,
and I open the cabinet door.

Tentatively,
I begin my selection,
the first decision of the day.
It’s 7:38 a.m. What mug is the right one?
Is there any logic to this decision at all?

Too big, too plain, too uninspiring, too colorful, too small, natural, unnatural...
fearing myself neurotic and defying my idiosyncratic sensibilities,
reaching directly for a mug,
“I–heartshape–NY staring back at me.

Why is this the one? Do I love NY?
Does this mug rings true with my identity?
Filling the chosen one with steaming hot water (no cold mugs need apply for morning coffee)
I am...content with my choice?

Quirks and quirkiness.
My wife enters the kitchen,
yawning,
I am distracted with the feeding ritual of dogs.

Oblivious to my eccentricities or neuroses,
she has filled a mug with hot water,
emptied it,
and now both are filled with coffee.

One mug–not mine–is filled to the top,
for me.
I–heartshape–NY in my hand anyway,
and my wife with no room for cream, no idea why.

To her, just a mug,
something you pour coffee into
early.
To her, always just a mug.


Two different people.
Coffee mugs, sensibilities, neuroses, characteristics, traits, behaviors,
–stupefied.

All this at 7:38 in the morning.