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..?
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.