Out of sugar (Day 1307)

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

Entr’acte (Day 1214)

Frying pan sizzling, radio news droning, heart pounding, she set her girl on the floor 

and fainted dead away.

He always chose the houses — stark, brand new — then drove off in their only car 

for days or weeks at a time. 

When she learned the truth, her fury stunned him.

The manager insisted all his bank tellers wear high heels, and never allowed them 

to sit while they worked.

This time, she wanted a man who loved her, though she was still young enough 

not to understand the implications.

In the darkened living room, she waited for her wayward daughter to come home.

When everyone finally left, the house grew quiet, but not in the ways she had expected.

© 2020 by Hannah Six

Not a time (Day 1212)

Not a time for sun

and yet it shines

not a time for music

but your song 

is playing again

not a time to leave

but you’ll go far

not a time for dreams

but there you are

© 2020 by Hannah Six