Breakfasts were special.
Two plates.
Two eggs.
Together.
Cup and saucer.
Egg and spoon.
Salt and pepper.
Kind people ask.
I cannot tell.
There are no words.
At breakfast
One plate is lonely.
The egg is spoiled.
No pepper.
I never liked it.
Only the salt is set.
Only the sharp taste.
Martin Swords
April 2008
Martin Swords
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/breakfast-for-one-2/
