The Gateway Gulp

This black elixir steaming between my hands
in mugs each morning raises the dead across the land.
In silvery dawns under painted skies
we rise
with shock and grit in our eyes.
With heavy strides we search
through an unreal fog
for a white button
with an orange light.
We wait for percolating
and the scintillating
scent, and earthy dripping.
We choose our kitchen cup,
and cream (if you take it)
and sugar (oh you don't?)
We wait for the thunking
of boiling air
and stare
daring
the dripping to stop.
That first pour.
That first inhale.
A sting-burning sip.
Alive.
Awake.
Aware.