Dark pool

of black coffee surface glass

in which to gaze and see

the past – circles rippling in a mug

jogged atop rickety table strewn

with crumbs of yesterday’s breakfast,

and his yawn irritates because

she knows she should have picked

the other one.

 

Fingertips cloy for hold, pressure

external to the chest zone, but

find only tackiness of honey

shop-bought and tasteless and

dripped from toast not her own…

When last was her life sweet?

He’s saying something

she doesn’t hear because she notices

the cavity of his mouth – full

of food not her, thank god –

is ponderously large.  How, how

did she ever..?

 

Dark pool

of black coffee undrunk shudders

as he rises, his dish remaining atop table

still in need of a leg fix since

he took her astride it last.

She becomes aware

that as he left he unveiled

her right breast.  She closes

the gown again, cold

as the coffee before her.

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