Recalling being age seven, at breakfast around
the white, oval wood kitchen table.
Sitting on a telephone book so as to reach the
table, I was not able.
Mom, of blessed memory and always a fresh
tablecloth, newly pressed.
Nobody in leisure clothes allowed, so we all
were fully dressed.
Only the small radio played soft melodious
Music that today, nobody could even croon.
My frisky wire-haired fox terrier played with
Breakfasts, decades ago that I
both cherish and enjoyed.
Faces of sun and peace, in my memory live.
The early days of this poetess, her happy,
September 18, 2020
Copyright © Panagiota Romios | Year Posted 2020
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