Through The Kitchen Window

February 25, 2018

Then the point comes when you know you can’t save
it, it will break and crumble and drown in the milk and

 

that last cookie, the murky outline of that inevitability
will forever remain the memory of the night it began to

 

end. You know I never liked this table, the stripes the
morning sun paints on the teak through the blinds, it is

 

better, out on the steps, less interrupted, less incomplete,
the odd crow wondering if it is welcome while you wave

 

a rolled newspaper over tea and biscuits, saving us from
the flies. Alone, wrapped in your old parka, I see a half-

 

moon dissolve in the blackened sky bowl, somewhere your
fingers hold the other piece, rain dripping off its uneven

 

edge. Silver swirls begin to fill the air as the light mixes,
changes, till that point when you know you can’t save it.

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