I inherited from my mother, who inherited from her father. We ain't morning people. I don't mean that as a defense, or offense, or anything but what it is. I wake up and grunt, groan, and slide into my day. It takes me a while and the last thing I want is to be talked to in the morning. I need until 10 a.m. until I am social.
That is why Dr. Kim Johnson's Sunday prompt of having coffee with her threw me for a loop. That was the prompt....if the two of us were out for coffee, what would we have to write. Well, I followed my gut. And this one is for mom (and poor dad). They should get it just fine.
Mug Shot
~b.r.crandall
Sorry to be Squidward,
but I just birthed a cow.
Calf-inated please…
No, I don’t typically do these morning rituals…
can’t espresso myself this early.
No rise & grind for this Star-bucker.
Simply one, miserable cup of coffee —
the depresso who doesn’t give a %#$@.
My bad. No Folgers in my cup.
I shouldn’t have told you
where you could dunk your donut, exactly,
(but I didn’t appreciate your glazed
ring-toss around my middle finger, either).
I know. I know. I know.
You expected me to sing,
“You are so brew-tiful to me,”
but there’s been a latte on my mind lately,.
Alarm clocks. Eye boogers. Adulthood.
Sorry if this mochas you sad.
It’s just I was up all night coffee and sneezing
(allergic to the tree sperm of April).
No. No. Don’t say that. It’s me, not you.
I’m not a morning brew
and you already knew I was a crotchety,
cantankerous crab when you met me.
(I’m still afflicted with the sham of sunrise).
Got it from my mother —
you have no idea how many heads
my father’s had chewed off
while scrambling his eggs.
I mean, if we were meant to pop out of bed,
wouldn’t we sleep in toasters?
Yes, I’ll have another cup.
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