Рон Пэджетт. Стихотворение в прозе (Утренний кофе)

The Morning Coffee 

The morning coffee.
I'm not sure why I drink 
it. Maybe it's the ritual

of the cup, the spoon, 
the hot water, the milk, 
and the little heap of

brown grit, the way 
they come together to
form a nail I can hang
the day on.

It's something to do
between being asleep 
and being awake. 

Surely there's 
something better to do, 
though, than to drink 
a cup of

instant coffee. Such as
meditate? About what?
About having a cup of coffee. 

A cup of coffee 
whose first drink is too
hot and whose last 
drink 

is too cold,  but whose 
many in-between 
drinks are, like Baby 
Bear's porridge,  just right. 
Papa Bear looks disgruntled. 
He removes his spectacles

and swivels his eyes 
onto the cup that sits 
before Baby Bear, and then, 

after a discrete cough, 
reaches over and picks
it up. Baby Bear doesn't 

understand this
disruption of the 
morning routine. 
Papa Bear brings 

the cup close to his face
and peers at it intently. 
The cup shatters in his

paw, explodes actually, 
sending fragments and
brown liquid all over the room.

In a way it's good
that Mama Bear isn't there. 
Better that she rest 

In her grave beyond the garden, 
unaware of what has happened 
to the world.