Mike Acker


Sunday Mourning


Real butter, for a change, melts on my toast
with apricot jam, spread thickly, like I like it.

Cold, caloried cream swirls in my fresh brewed coffee,
with a teaspoon of real sugar, stirred.

Habits die hard, having just cooked an omelette
for two, only one may eat.

Glasses slide low on the bridge of my nose,
Sunday paper ready to go.

The pool's blue tiles glisten under
this early sunshine.

What a glorious morning this could have
been, had she not packed up and left me

with this Sunday mourning.

Submitted: Monday, May 05, 2014
Edited: Saturday, February 21, 2015

Topic of this poem: love


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