I love my morning coffee,
It is hot and strong,
Like a firm handshake or a warm hug first thing in the morning,
It gives me the masculine strength to start the day and venture into the life of a parent raising a son.

The aroma is familiar and friendly,
One that takes me back to my days at university – the first round I mean.
When time was flexible, and it was ok to live on porridge and rice for five days, and then smoked salmon and cadbury’s chocolate on when I got paid, because there was always someone to buy the next beer.
In that four bedroom shared house, with guests every night, I drank my coffee black, because the milk was always out. Come to think of it, the toilet paper was often out too… so I kept a secret stash.

These days, I add a dollop of thick cream to my coffee in the morning for richness and indulgence,
It whisks me off to a place of my dreams – Pari
Where I imagine myself in flowing skirts, and bright red lipstick
As I laugh loudly to jokes spoken in beautiful **** French by tall handsome men,
Here I can speak French, laugh in French, make love in French and I am honoured as the beautiful Aussie goddess I am.

I’m not sure where said 8 year old is whilst I am in France … I guess he is there riding his bike with the locals and whatever 8 year olds do… but he is not sipping my coffee.

I drink my morning coffee from a great big mug with painted dragon flys on it,
The dragon flys reminds me, everyday is new beginnings,
A chance to transform what was before,
To sore high and far,
And that nothing is ever stuck in one place.

As I towards the end of my cup,
I swirl the coffee and the cream back together,
The temperature has dropped,
The taste is not as strong,
But the impact on my day is for ever, as I return to my place and my life to hear the words ‘mum, what’s for breakfast’.

I love my morning coffee.

I have flowers in my throat.
The rich and fertile caverns of my chest support a ebullient host nematocera, of which, breed in my abdomen, gnawing at my innards.

Swarms of adults congragate in my mind, the competition is fierce.

Attitudes of altrusim: a moist mire, slowing my step.

Try to say, anything, but that.

I'd rather attract the nausa of rhopalocera.
Their light hearted and short-lived whimsy. A far cry from this violent mob. Oh but the sob of emptiness when they all die at once.

A welcome boon, that, maybe we'll come to bloom. Clumsy and crooked, I was never able to make a play when all I'm pitched is a doorsa.