At almost every morning's gloomy breaking
I awaken before my beloved's eyes open
And step gingerly outside the bedroom we share.
I ignore the dog soundly dozing on the carpet
And crank up the television's obnoxious morning blare
And find my way onto the cold kitchen flooring
To empty the old grounds from the coffee-maker
And refill the receptacle with fresh water
And add new coffee to the morning's new pot.
Twenty seven long years, and still
I don't make the coffee for myself.
No, the cup is for my love, alone,
And so she holds this ritual dearer
Than most any timid smile or trembling touch
I might offer her at the dawning of the morning light.
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