The Coffee You Still Make

I hear you before I'm awake The kettle, the spoon The quietest man in the world Five forty-five, the floorboards give you away You think you're silent — I've known for thirty years The chipped white mug, the one you never replace Two sugars stirred so the spoon don't ring You set it down like it's made of morning And close the door on its slowest hinge You never once said it You just kept brewing it It's the coffee you still make, my love Thirty years and you never missed a day Not on the bad ones, not after the fights Not the morning after we sat up all night Some men write poems, some buy roses by the lake — You said it all in the coffee you still make The mug got chipped the year we moved the piano You glued the handle, said it pours just fine Steam and that dark roast smell down the hallway — That's the alarm clock I'd choose every time Five more minutes you give me like a present Like sleep was something you could pour me too You never once said it You didn't have to It's the coffee you still make, my love Thirty years and you never missed a day Not on the bad ones, not after the fights Not the morning after we sat up all night Some men write poems, some buy roses by the lake — You said it all in the coffee you still make The kids used to ask how you know it's real I told them: watch the small things hold Anyone can shout a vow in June It takes a quiet man to keep it every morning, every winter, every spoon It's the coffee you still make, my love Thirty years, and I never let on I was awake I'd lie there just to hear you trying to be quiet The softest racket, the daily riot So here's my vow, a little late — I'll love you past the last cup that you make Five forty-five tomorrow I'll be listening Don't change a thing