Three o'clock in the morning

Perceptions are evasive when I realize all the facets are lucid
in and of themselves. The state of their collage
within the company of one another
makes a disturbing contradictory exhibition.

The diner is more than familiar, but this is table 18
and not table 17. Instinctively I would sit at table 17.
Not at this hour. 3 o'clock in the morning.
The diner is not open.

I cannot get a handle on it,
and the coffee evades my tendency to drink
without keeping count how many cups I have drank
as an unseen hand has replenished a mug
I haven't taken a sip from yet.

The urn is filling
and I can hear the sound of water
beginning to flow
and the grounds I can smell
brewing into the industrial brushed stainless steel vessel.

The well worn table top shows clearly
every mark and coffee splash in the sunlight
cast through the windows behind me in this world of distortion.
Certainly the darkness of the hour ought to shade the sunlight
from revealing how unattainable this coffee
at this hour remains for me.

Yet I am aware the hour has come
that I must awaken for work is expecting me.
The coffee mug, the table, and the diner
disappear and I rise abruptly
to prepare for work which lacks
these familiar comforts
amidst these contradictions.