I eat breakfast alone.
My coffee makes no conversation
and the cereal just sits quietly
waiting for another hand movement.
There are no windows
in the kitchen where I eat
and the only flowers are on the apron
and cooker hood, greasy azaleas
that will be wiped off
when everything has been finished
and put away. I have eaten
alone for twenty six years
and still can't figure out
where everything is supposed to go,
what I'm supposed to do afterwards.
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