David’s making breakfast
while I fold his shirts
and think about how warm the nights have been.
Nothing has come suddenly with him; he gets lost when coming down to stay,
foreshadows all his thoughts with motion;
when he wants to help it’s first in the familiar frowning of his bottom lip.
The eggs are on the table now.
He’s made them so that he can drench his toast in yoke,
tidily,
knowingly,
almost
conversationally. But it’s not just with the eggs;
possibly he’s talking all the time, and I am listening
to his inaudible conversations with himself.
YOU ARE READING
The Back of My Mind (Poetry)
PoetryI like to write fiction, but I love to write poetry. Here is a collection of some of my favorite pieces.
