Pick up the butter from the table,

Sleek, squeaky cylinder of oil and food dye.

Piled high and thick and smudgy,

A cream paste to age you gracefully.

Cold drinks, soft drinks on the table.

A dash of dog’s hair in the coffee.

Your head hanging over the chilly rim,

A dirty water line from your mouth.

It’s all turning in the center of the table,

A moldable wheel made of clay,

Squeaking and pressing out breakfast for us.

We’re not eating because the butter is bad.


~ by SimmerSnow on December 30, 2011.

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