Peter
Gulps of bitter coffee lift our morning’s fog.
Even though our souls droop, goodness comes from our touch. My hand rests in Molly’s. Our love-hold hides under blue checkers and vinyl cloth.
We eat alone in walls of stone. Light streams dust. Mold waters eyes. Crumbs cover chipped china.
Molly stares at the table and pokes at a rubber egg.
We don’t spea…
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