on obligation and poetry

each morning, she dumps the used coffee grounds
from the previous day's pot, a chore she always
promises herself she'd do the night before.

each morning, she must clean the stained
carafe before she can fill it with water.

each morning, she makes a bit of a mess, cursing
softly, as she rinses the last specks of black down the drain.

each morning, when the automated wonder signals
it's finished, a steaming mug only moments away,
the boy asks 'mommy, what's that noise?'

each morning, she smiles and says, 'mommy's coffee is ready'
to which he replies, with a knowing nod, 'oh, sure.'

shakespeare will tell her the rest is silence,
yeats will tell her the center cannot hold,
hemingway will tell her it's just a dirty trick--

she'll fix herself another cup, sigh,
and wonder, what's next, what's next?