not the same (or addiction)

I’ve found my zen moment, my word, my repetition, my quiet place

my series of motions that elicit the desired effect.

It’s the sound of the grinder in the morning, the whirling of the blades, the history of

how it got here, and how it tastes so good.

The anticipation of pouring the water and

slipping in the filter and

measuring just the right amount.

My morning science.

It slips and melts and drips and and concocts itself without much of my help at all.

The sound of measuring instruments clanking against porcelain

the steam coming up high and twisting as the timing sets off.

The heat – too hot – gotta wait – 

slipping your hand over to feel it, knowing it’s not quite there 

never quite sure what it will taste like today.

Maybe it’s addiction, maybe it’s routine, maybe (I’ll say it is)

my happy place.

But nothing else is quite the same like a hot fresh pot of coffee.

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