Coffee and the Writer


Can it be Tuesday ??  The years days and seconds roll into one as I sit in a small hotel room in Delaware and my non conforming memories try to follow the dissolving calendar … without a morning coffee I am like a shepherd without sheep wondering what the strange crook in my hand is for. By hook or by crook I think, I need coffee. I only drink one cup of coffee a day, but take away that one cup and my whole ‘system’ notices that it is missing. Take away a year a second a memory, no problem; take away a coffee and a strange ennui takes over – a kind of wax-eyed lethargy that sits uncomfortably with the morning sun, entraps the spirits, they lag; or more accurately fail to get ‘motivated’. Nothing much seems to matter, just the thought of a coffee addling the brain. This will never do ! I am off to make coffee lest I sit here in a dribble bubbling on about my need for caffeine and appear to my friends as just another simpleton. This could have been a worthy beginning but, alas, it’s merely the prologue … I shall return for the first ‘act’ bathed in the days sunny munificence, but first, the amber brew, “the cup that cheers yet doth not inebriate” … then, and only then will I be able to concentrate.