Study of a Breakfast Table
There would be coffee,
there would be bread,
bleached napkins, by the window,
even the pot of cream,
but you’re not there.
A morning
like any other
except you’ve entered the script
without entering the scene.
Just a figure in your chair
having been washed of darkness
skin taut, mouth clean,
shoulders tender
but you’re not there.
A blistering morning
where you aren’t. A kiss
with mouth full of crumbs
but no you. Only a shape.
I wet the neck with a towel
till my fingers drip.
When you come alive
you won’t believe me. My hands disarmed,
torso wide open and it’s true.
I’m lining my words out by the butterknife,
you read as if you’re newborn.
Look: your collar is still damp.
