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.
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Comments about this poem (Sunday Mourning by Mike Acker )
(March 26, 1874 – January 29, 1963)
(4 April 1928 - 28 May 2014)
(26 April 1564 - 23 April 1616)
(12 July 1904 – 23 September 1973)
(10 December 1830 – 15 May 1886)
(28 November 1757 – 12 August 1827)
(1 February 1902 – 22 May 1967)
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