I have measured out my life with coffee spoons

I love this line from Eliot's "The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock". Even if it has mostly nothing to do with the poem, I think about the daily routine I have at home. Almost everyday begins with those spoons of coffee into the filter. Sometimes caffeinated, sometimes not.

I can almost capture the picture from particular moments of my life from that simple act of making coffee. Some are beautiful, some groggy, and yeah, some of those moments are plain out grumpy. But, how many spoons does it take to get to the middle of life without routine? Saturday and Sunday don't count. Spoon me a blend that is not Weekday's Must, nor Weekender's Choice.

So much sameness weakens the brew.

I'd like a cup of that near perfect roast that you slowly savor, while being caught up in conversation with a great friend.