Mornings

I sometimes wonder. Not too often though.
Sometimes instead I marvel, or am awed.
But usually I want to say I know
The hidden causes, why the act is flawed
Or what is really happening. To be
A cynic is my nature, which
I typically encourage. If I see
A miracle, I have a sudden itch
To pierce it through-and-through. I ought to say
That all this is conditional: unless
I've had my coffee, all is dully gray
And I'm a skeptic. But I must confess
That, caffeinated, all my troubles leave,
And there is nothing I will not believe.