So much rests in that simple addition.

Merely an expected presence,

expected and useful

to help with those stale bites of bread as you wait.


“I’ll have a coke.”



the legs leave, lacking levity.

Her shoes slapping the sandstone.

We sit, thighs touching, waiting.


“More bread?”


The answer is always yes,

but it shouldn’t be based on the size of my thighs.


Five cups rest before us,

green plastic bumping with a hollow clink.

Five cups emptied and filled

Emptied and filled

Emptied and filled.


The bread, food, whatever, passes.

Delivered, consumed, removed.


Then we’re left with a mass of cups

forming the altar where we exchange minds.


“How was work.”


I contemplate the seven hours old

cold cup of coffee on my kitchen counter

and my brain spirals into domestic dances

while his voice peacefully drones, dips, duly dulcet.

And though my mind traces the steps

of that day’s dithering dance

the jobs left undone

I relax for the first time

in the liquid that fills holes,

washing over the dry

scabs left from tireless efforts.

Continue the fun!

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