yesterdays bread,
already stale on the counter,
wrapped in a long paper sleeve,
the crust hard, there is
nothing you can do about that.
maybe the birds will
enjoy it, breaking it down
into small white pieces,
tossing them towards the woods
from your open window.
but there are no birds.
it's too cold for birds.
too cold to go out and get
more bread. you need
more of everything it seems,
as you go back upstairs to read,
staring at your empty bed.
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment