Sunday Papers

the coffeepot has gone cold.
I can see it clearly in her eyes,
There's no more steam or caffeine
Demerara sugar or cream…
There are no more shortcake biscuits,
Flittered away, afternoons, with
Silkily discarded; nicker-elastic trinkets.
But thankfully, for little mercies,
There are the Sunday papers, and
Lots of lukewarm tea on-tap.
But thankfully, for little mercies,
There are the Sunday papers, and
Lots of lukewarm tea on-tap.

poem by Mark Heathcote
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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