Thirty Years

“Do you have to think so loudly?”
I light a smoke between chapped lips,
“Have you harrassed anyone else this morning,
or just me?”
You laid your hand on that blue skirt
I bought for you one summer
when we still liked each other.

“Hard to believe it’s been thirty years,
An hour ago I would’ve said,
‘Hard to believe I slept last night
with all your hacking,'”

“Hostile this morning, aren’t you?”
You pour a cup of black coffee for me
and spoon three scoops of sugar into
yours.

“And you haven’t been so cheerful, either.”
“The daisies haven’t even been cheerful.
How am I supposed to feel?”
“Drink your coffee before it gets cold.”

“You haven’t been to see that cancer doctor, lately.”
“I won’t.”
“You’re going to die, more than likely.”
“I won’t. Hand to God.”

A long look.

“That’s not funny.”
You scrape some old butter onto a piece of soft toast.
I wrap my arms around your thin waist,
fingers licking the soft fabric of your skirt.

“Don’t hold me so tight.”

I let go and go back to my chair,
the one by the window where I can see
the squirrels.

Long look,
long sip,
long drag.

“I love you, you know.”
“I know.”

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2 thoughts on “Thirty Years

    1. Thank you so much, I appreciate the comment. Some of my favorites are Hemingway and Bukowski, I love the beauty in their simplicity. I was kind of playing around with writing in the style of Bukowski with this one.

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