297 – Breakfast Mess

Poem number 297
Breakfast Mess
You never wash the breakfast bowls
They’re there each afternoon
Still caked in dregs of porridge
Welded fast to dirty spoons
You never put the milk away
There’s sugar on the side
The honey on the table
Leaves a streak six inches wide
The crumbs, the knives, the dirty plates
The pan I have to clean
The jam so red and sticky
And the cheese that’s going green
All of these are you, my love
You’re there when I get in
I see you in the dirty cups
And smudges on the bin
A life we had, for all that time
The mess, the crumbs, the smears
A thousand dirty breakfast bowls
Three dozen precious years
And though you’re gone, and turned to dust
I leave the house each day
With the breakfast mess un-tidied
In that same old sacred way
In the hope that when I get back in
I’ll find you there inside
And I’ll get the chance to scold you
For the plates left on the side.
But you’re gone, my love and turned to dust
There’s nothing left to see
When I come home every evening
But a mess that’s made by me.


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