Morning War Cry

There’s a sign in our kitchen that reads: “A yawn is a silent scream for coffee.” It was a gift from a cousin, who insists on giving folks decor with sassy sayings, whether they want ‘em or not.

I tried to protest when she handed it to me, but she raised one eyebrow like Grandma used to do, and I knew I’d lost. So now it hangs proudly near the coffee maker, and truth be told, it’s the most honest piece of literature in the whole house.

I’ve never been a “morning person.” At best, I’m a late-morning truce negotiator. At worst, I’m a growling heap wrapped in an old robe and clutching my coffee mug like it’s the last lifeboat off the Titanic.

When I worked a regular 9-to-5 job, I had to get up at 5:30 a.m. to be presentable by 7 a.m. It wasn’t that I wanted to look good—I didn’t want to frighten small children or end up on someone’s security footage.

Back then, my morning routine was more battlefield prep than peaceful ritual. My alarm goes off. I slap it. The alarm goes off again. I curse the inventor of clocks.

Finally, I stumble out of bed and try to find the kitchen without tripping over the dogs, who insist on sleeping wherever my feet intend to go. Once there, I make a beeline for the coffee pot—assuming, of course, I remembered to set it the night before.

On one unfortunate occasion, I forgot. I stood there, yawning my head off, looking at that emptiness like it had personally betrayed me.

The machine stared back coldly, mocking me with its lack of gurgling. And wouldn’t you know it, that was also the morning the filter decided to clog.

So there I was, standing in my underwear at four a.m., trying to coax a sputtering faucet into filling a pot so I could brew life back into my bones. It’s in those moments that you understand how wars get started.

I’ve tried tea. Folks always suggest it. “Why not try green tea? It’s soothing.”

Sure, maybe for monks and forest creatures. For me, it’s just hot leafy water and false promises. Tea doesn’t whisper sweet nothings to me the way coffee does.

Coffee says, “Hey, you might be tired, grumpy, and aging like an avocado, but you’ve got this.”

Tea says, “You should be wearing yoga pants and journaling your feelings.”

Some folks go all out with their coffee—fancy machines, milk frothers, beans blessed by Peruvian llamas. I’m a simple man and like mine straight-up, hot, and black.

It’s not about taste; it’s about survival. The first cup gets me to coherent speech. A second cup makes me human. That third cup might even get me to go outside and interact with people. Maybe.

So now, each morning, I shuffle into the kitchen, give the sign a bleary glance, pour a cup, turn to the microwave oven, insert my cup, and press the button like I’m launching a mission to Mars. I yawn as I wait.

That first sip? It’s not just coffee—it’s hope. And if that ain’t poetry, I don’t know what is.