Mike Acker


Sunday Mourning


Real butter, melting on my multi-grain toast
with apricot jam, spread thickly.

Cold, ivory cream in my fresh, hot coffee
with a teaspoon of sugar, stirred.

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

What more can I ask for on this, my morning,
except for her to please come back.

Submitted: Monday, May 05, 2014
Edited: Friday, July 18, 2014

Topic of this poem: love

Form:


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