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Sunday Times
By: Faust D. Fiore

Have the Sunday Times
Stupidly expensive coffee
Clean sheets
Brushing crumbs off absentmindedly

Quiet Coltrane
And the wind in the trees
Smell of frizzled muffins
Flannel

She reads, her hair wet from the bath
The rain blows around the yard
We drink our coffee
I never let on

Noon passes
We share the puzzle
We puzzle over the sharing
No - I do

We don't make love
Except we do
We do nothing
But it's everything I ever wanted

She reads ads to me
And smiles
Because I listen
She knows

She falls asleep on my shoulder
And I am left to wonder

Article Source: http://journal.ilovephilosophy.com

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