I have this one idea
It bit the back of his throat as he opened the door the nightly cold brisk.
So different from the warmth of the bed he had just left
Coffee and chocolate
Anything else
From an interior bedroom
beneath her pillow she yelled
Chips we need chips
Taking a mental note he turned once more into the acceptance of cold
The rattle of his keys
a femur xylophone echoing
In the early of winter morn.
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