eight-thirty nine o’clock
cool as gingerbread
on a cold countertop
we face each other over
the mail-scattered table
mugs brimming with
reheated coffee no cream
out of sugar
it’s not the words
but the achingly polite
tone itchy
as a cheap wool sweater
when all you long for
is the sympathetic embrace
of worn flannel sheets
© 2020 by Hannah Six
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