A coffee cup
With a stained interior
And dribbles down the side,
With some advertisement or image
Stamped on the side like a tattoo,
This is the substance of the morning hours.
Well, that and the coffee itself, of course.
Elegance never seems a part of it,
Would seem out of place somehow.
The graceful curve of a china cup
Would meet too many clumsy bulls
In those morning hours.
Chips and cracks wouldn't delay.
The fog of it all would cause an accident.