—  Pushpa MacFarlane

Gulping down the morning coffee
while it’s hot—not in degrees,
but to slake the morning thirst
for rejuvenation—that bout
of caffeine to kick up the energy
just a notch, just enough to feel
the new day, since long hours spent
in waking and snoozing,
then waking again, humped over
the computer to wind up the day’s work—

The clock on my PC shows time has moved on,
long transpired from post-meridian to ante-
crossed the 24-hour limit, tripped
way over into the news cycle.
The morning edition uploaded already.
East coast buzzing with waking life,
and I, here in the wee hours
of pacific daylight, am sloshed,
subliminal, spent—yearning for a shut-eye—
and waking up, the taste of hot coffee,
to wave a green flag to kick-start
my engine, propel the next rush
of hours—that surge to galvanize me—
to ride on high tide and write
my very first line for the day.

One thought on “Thirst

  1. A person who doesn’t understand poetry might ask: All that for the first line of a poem? Poets, like us, answer: Yes.

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