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,
considering she had packed up
and left me late, last night.
Mike Acker
Mike Acker
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sunday-mourning/
