Raining again, paper, pen,
switch on the kettle, sigh again.
Bread in the toaster, egg in the pan,
Dear sir or Madam, I don't think I can
write this missive, explaining circumstance,
it's too near the knuckle, to your tune I won't dance.
I'll just have my breakfast and give it a while,
whilst I just sit here, reminisce and smile.
Imagining you there, buttering your toast,
but I think that the one thing that I miss the most
is the look of satisfaction when you sipped your first drink.
Weak coffee, lots of milk, with two sweeteners, I think,
but life goes on and things must be sorted.
The tax man, work and pensions all must be courted,
letters to write and forms to fill,
the humdrum of life, you know the drill.
But where on the form do you put the hurt?
Or that you still smell her perfume on your best shirt?
That you look at photos each waking hour
or reminisce fondly over an old pressed flower?
That a lifetime of love and living together
can be compressed in the form of a letter?
So I'll just sup my coffee, look out the window and dream,
leave the letter unwritten and add some more cream.
Copyright © John Jones | Year Posted 2020
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