This is a morning like
someone’s left-to-sit
breakfast. Coffee
creamed and cooled in
open cups. Rows
of toast, gold and taciturn.
I’d have seen you
burn, before plating
and leaving
you for a lonely driver
to weep over
and write about. But
who am I to
say you aren’t pretty
as a picture
untouched, there, on
the table?