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.
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.