His Breakfast

His Breakfast

In the morning/ He pounded/

down his/ stairs/

with a brusqueness/ uniquely his own./

Skin gleamed white/

where the razor had gleaned/

No traces of/ stubble./

He spread his toast/ with a militant

dollop/ of homemade black/

currant jam/ poured the milk from a

label/ long-life, semi-skimmed/

He sat down to his breakfast/

and chewed/

each manicured, accurate/

crumb./

He saw my feet.

He scrubbed the plates.

He cut, and I

stopped swinging.

My poems are folded in his drawer.

sat down to his breakfast. And savored. And chewed. Each manicured,
accurate

crumb.

He saw my feet. He scrubbed the china. And cut. So I

stopped swinging.

My mouth is still. My letter, folded. Tidy. In his

drawer.