Poem – Sundays

Sundays

I wake up, you never want breakfast
but I always offer. I climb over you,
drop down from your bed and step
across a cold, plywood floor.
The kitchen tiles prickle at my bare soles,

why won’t you warm the house in winter?
I search your cupboards like a blind racoon
lost in a larder. They’re nearly empty
except for your synthetic meats

and your imitation milk.
You call from the bedroom for coffee.
I make two cups – the way you prefer.
‘Fair Trade’ the box’s label boasts.

The bitterness lingers, nags at my palette,
like a lump of words unspoken.
Maybe, in time, I’ll get used to the taste.

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