Breakfast Still Life

Breakfast is an orange,
peeled, halved, and placed on
separate plates–
one chipped, and both as old
as our marriage.
On yours, each segment is
individualized by
the use of sticky division,
while my chunk
waits to be devoured whole.
Sharp, but puzzled,
an eraser-tipped pencil taps
on your crossword,
a distant accompaniment to
the book I’m reading.
Our mismatched cups waft
competing scents,
each darkly brooding under
their discrete clouds.
After decades side by side,
what’s left to say?
When they meet in a smile,
our eyes converse.
Quiet is the tie that binds.

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