As a child, it was not I, but my mother
Who loved mud
Every morning of my adolescence
I observed my mother in her rituals
She kept a special red tin
Full of her desired delicacy
She would toss the tin cap aside
Eyes weary and hands slow
She would scoop a few cups into a machine
Without thought, or hesitation
She would fill up the mud *** with water
Glancing toward the pre-measured dashes
And pour it into the contraception
As she closed the top she would often say
"Good morning son, how did you sleep?"
My reply was always the same, "good"
Not in disrespect, but because served me to be short
Plus I had further examinations
A few minutes would pass and the mud
Would be begin to boil
And drip into the largest compartment
Once it's bubbling and popping subsided
She would find a ceramic cup
Pouring it herself up to the brim
Hovering over its steam
Clasping the dish close to her
When she was done and I was feeling daring
I'd sneak to her dismissed glassware
Wipe my finger against the bottom
Stick it in my mouth
Without fail my face would pucker
And my mother, as if to add to the dream
Would say something like
"You should have added sugar and cream"