My boy makes coffee in a big white cup
and I like to watch how exact he is;
scooping the near-black granules from the jar
then boiling off the kettle, mixing milk,
his mind half somewhere else.
He takes it dark and it helps him to wake up.
(Through all of this, fresh little currents form:
eddies or ebbs in our continuum)
he puts the spoon down precisely on the side,
looks at me, his eyes meet my eyes
and in his surface I find
tiny whirlpools and tides