TWO MUGS


Two mugs, every morning, two down
one back up. Two bowls, every night,
two down, one put away.

Six bananas, three rotten after three days,
half an orange, one piece of bread, one fork.

“It’s okay,” mumbled,
“I’m trying to feed you.”

One plate.

One side of the bed
with rustled sheets and shallow breathing.

Two mugs, no juice, no speaking,
one bowl.