I’ll let you spill some fear on me, for
it is likely that we both know better
than to pass projectile karma
between hissing lips.
Soon, we shall clack our teeth in time
to the beat of the refrigerator,
rattle blotched forks and
hunger for peace as brittle as an icicle.
A morning of spiked silence,
a breakfast, cheaply cooked,
eggs that stare-our four chastened eyes,
last night’s bravado shaded by mushroom trails.
By lunch, there may be a chance of balm,
a slice of light drifts from behind the eclipse.
Flick a coin and see who dares to smile first,
to touch the others fingers
to end our Sunday impasse.
