He could never decide on
the strength of his coffee,
distracted, as the
paper-boy with rolled-up
dirty sleeves rung the doorbell, before
swerving tight round the corner,
to criss-crossed destinations.
Over egg-yolks, and
exaggerated articulations I run my
eyes along lines minimalist,
sipping sweetened black alongside a
failing marriage, with his silence
taking in a recluse mole, part intimate,
yawning on my morn-hued skin.
Prompt: d’verse poets’s pub- http://dversepoets.com/2011/10/27/meeting-the-bar-critique-and-craft-conflation/