Sencha and time

I scoop two teaspoons of sencha leaves
into the strainer--wait, I should have only
used one. But it'll still taste fine, so I
rumble my way down to the coffee machine
and pour the hot water into the empty mug,
leaves still waiting on my desk. Thankfully
that habit is strong enough, or I'd have burnt
leaves with bitterness under the roots. And
I wonder if it's worth it, morning, if it's worth
the heavy eyes and hold hands, today when I
imagine I still feel half-digested catfood under
my nails despite lots of soap, when the blinds
have been near savaged by orange fur, and
what sleep there was, was fraught with snippets
of the kind I was almost glad to be woken from.
No, I think, no it's not worth it. But since I'm
here anyway, I'll drink my sencha. Later, I'll
sit with the writing group and be glad;
the luxury of friendship and time with friends
is harder to afford without that paycheck, so
the "worth-it"ness of mornings changes the
farther I get from them.

image by Maiko Kinari Shincha, from 2010