⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem I
(A small morning rebellion, starring a mug that refuses to help.)
The coffee didn’t even try.
It sat in the mug, dark and stubborn,
informing me through a thin veil of steam
that it was done with the rescue business.
Apparently, I am on my own.
The steam rose in a slow,
disappointed shrug –
the kind you give a friend
who never learns.
Light leaned into the kitchen sideways,
squinting,
looking like it had slept fitfully
and wasn’t ready for a conversation.
The fridge hummed with the heavy,
oxygen‑starved solidarity
of a night‑shift worker
who just wants to clock out.
The spoon was useless.
It lay on the counter,
feigning a deep, silver sleep
to avoid being involved.
There was no grand epiphany.
No metaphor waiting in the shadows
to make this meaningful.
Just a room,
a cold caffeine resignation,
and the quiet realization
that the day isn’t a performance –
it’s simply a space
where I have to learn
how to stand
without being held up.
May 13
May 13, 2026 at 7:26 AM UTC
⭐ THE UNPOLISHED SEASON — Poem I
(A small morning rebellion, starring a mug that refuses to help.)
The coffee didn’t even try.
It sat in the mug, dark and stubborn,
informing me through a thin veil of steam
that it was done with the rescue business.
Apparently, I am on my own.
The steam rose in a slow,
disappointed shrug –
the kind you give a friend
who never learns.
Light leaned into the kitchen sideways,
squinting,
looking like it had slept fitfully
and wasn’t ready for a conversation.
The fridge hummed with the heavy,
oxygen‑starved solidarity
of a night‑shift worker
who just wants to clock out.
The spoon was useless.
It lay on the counter,
feigning a deep, silver sleep
to avoid being involved.
There was no grand epiphany.
No metaphor waiting in the shadows
to make this meaningful.
Just a room,
a cold caffeine resignation,
and the quiet realization
that the day isn’t a performance –
it’s simply a space
where I have to learn
how to stand
without being held up.
This poem opens "The Unpolished Season", a cycle about the quiet, unremarkable moments that shape a day more honestly than any performance. Here, even the coffee refuses to play its usual role, leaving the speaker to stand in a morning that offers no metaphors, no revelations, just presence. It’s a small study in humour, stillness, and the gentle absurdity of learning to function without being rescued.
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