The Coffee Cup Conspiracy

This morning my coffee mug winked at me

a sly, ceramic secret keeper,

its handle curved like a knowing grin.

I swear it whispered,

“Another refill? You’ll regret it.”

but I poured anyway,

a storm-dark ocean swirling in porcelain.

The spoon became a ship,

sinking without ceremony,

and I wondered

how many explorers were lost

to breakfast.

The cat judged from the counter,

tail flicking,

probably convinced I’m unfit for command.

Still, caffeine is democracy—

we the people vote for wakefulness,

one shaky cup at a time.

By the last sip

I was president of nothing,

just a human

negotiating peace with gravity.