breakfast every morning
in almost perfect silence
except to poke fun at my outfit
but its not meant as violence
i can hear your hair growing
its much longer than mine
and i sometimes see my future
when i look in your eyes
but then they close
the butter on your grits
melts and flows over the side
of your bowl down to the coaster
upon which it resides
but you need not mix it in
you have nothing to hide
there is no creamer in your coffee
everything you are inside
shows
there is no creamer in my coffee
there is no food left on my plate
my head too is that empty
as i sit and sip and wait
for your breakfast to be finished
for you to make perfect change
then that brings this haunting thought
is there really such a thing?
i dont know