Lisa leafed through gently used copies of fantasy
and nibbled coffeecake leftovers
– feeding her bud-tainted starvation.
Looking her legs up
then down.
He asked hopefully
patiently
“How will you want your eggs in the morning?”
Hating sirens and dripping condoms
mislaid and no longer so protective
– he was no closer to marriage and longed
for her to leave.
He would have a morning to enjoy
6:am smoke, some bittersweet chocolate
and battered pages between his fingers.
He is quiet and pulls on fading black jeans
then his cigarette burnt t-shirt.
Jostling her awake, she implores him to
crawl back to her.
But her moment has passed
and his comforts were calling.
He longed to laze about like an over-fed dog
– curled up with warm caress of cat
and a cup of two-day-old black coffee.
He had tired of talking about himself.
She wore wool, he thought with a shudder.
A storm was racing in and turned
the subtle light of morning violent and grey.
Lighting a candle, he thought of his sister and
all of her success.
He poured himself a vial of is favorite vice,
gauged the frequency of the lightning,
and sat empty at his typewriter
ready to pour it all back out.