poetry

Freshly Ground

Her eyes curl into my head

it is another morning of black toast,

firefighters spraying our radio

the cat rakes up its bones in a

ball of basket, under the

purring kettle.

 

The newspaper (back and forth)

dotted lanes and columns of chaos

The look again, more like

a glower of frayed toast, halting me:

a reporter-arresting posture

 

it spills then (her hair) into

the sink like fine zinc-teeth

dangling on ends.

         I move to the

window that whispers an ebb

of sunlight on her face, and a…

smile as thick as a crust.

 

 

 

 

PhilosopherPoet

 

*May The Muse And Plato juice Be With You*

 

 

 

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