Joe-fisted

Before I even open my crumblegrit eyes,
moneymaker this day as yet
unshaken, the deathgurgle sounds from the kitchen
and in she comes,
Joe-fisted --- ambidextrous with
100% mugged-
Columbian.
Caffo-trafficker,
a steaming stream of liquid
consciousness-raising hanked
to each wrist. I savor the electric drip
simplicity of it.

The potter's wheel of morning
has renewed the sky to fired bisque,
and in this slumberspace,
quilt-stitched and down-cushioned,
I am as rich as four walls and a
nailgunned ceiling
will admit. Robed in white terry, she smiles,
her tumble of brown curls
still wet.

For a few ecliptic degrees
the world can wait like 35 cents
of newsprint on the porch
outside
the door.