Lukewarm Black Coffee

It's a little sweet at this point, 
the not at all boiling or freezing
point, enjambed in my throat
by the pull of the mind, 

my stomach could do without
while I find what I am looking for:
a notion that is not commotion,
a chaos with a little security,
a buzz without the fuzz,
a rule without rulers,

twelve inches or a meter
it sticks out into my tongue
like a ceramic clown, making 
fun of my late showing to the
morning, for after ten am,
coffee is a joke on me.