I stare across our oak breakfast table
and you are a close-up of eyelids dangling
over the morning's paper. We sleep
in separate oceans anticipating mornings,
the waves have pushed us into rigid currents.
We do not talk, there is nothing new to mention.
You eat your rye toast and I count the crunches,
noticing my reflection in my cup of cheap
black coffee. I keep hopes for a better lunch.